The Other Director of Communications
by Nehszriah
Summary: Malcolm Tucker has been at his new post as the PM's Director of Communications for only a week, but it's apparently time for his wizarding counterpart to make herself known. [Ministry of Magic AU, containing post-Inquiry story, small children being adorable, and fanon for the international wizarding community that does not comply with the Fantastic Beasts EU]
1. First Meeting, 2005

A/N: Sometimes I open my tumblr to prompts and this is the product of one of those. Said prompt was " _if you're ever in the mood for hogwarts-esque au ft malcolm and clara, consider this a prompt_." I did consider it, and it worked, at least more along the lines of a Ministry of Magic AU than a Hogwarts AU because reasons. Don't know if this will continue or not, so for the meantime this is listed as complete.

* * *

The Other Director of Communications

It was late at night as Malcolm was working to catch up on his agenda. He had only been at his post for a week and everything was as tiring as he imagined it would be. Shouting more, cussing more, mopping up more messes—it was going to be a thankless job, but he was glad to do it. As long as he got _some_ recognition in the end, it would all be worth it.

"Malcolm? I'm headed home," said a voice from just beyond the opened door at the end of the room. Sam poked her head in and waited for an answer.

"Yeah, go ahead Sammy," he replied. It was nearing eight, which was late enough as it was. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Get some rest, and not just on the sofa," she said before heading off. Sam was turning out to be a great personal assistant, Malcolm had found. She was competent and kind, with the same sort of conviction he possessed. If he didn't already know his actual sister would be offended, he'd say she was like the baby sister he'd always wanted. Ah, fuck it—Sam was his London sister and there was nothing wrong with that.

Time passed. The cleaning crew came in and he introduced himself, apologizing for the mess he left two nights earlier. They too were decent people and shouldn't have felt like they were being used. He was the only used one in the building and part of him would have liked to keep it that way. After they did the vacuuming and left, he continued on, hoping he could get his work done before midnight. No such luck, however, for as he was skimming over a document from two regimes ago, the clock began to chime.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. Counting the number of gongs, he used it as a short break and closed his tired eyes. The following day was going to depend on espresso, he already knew, and he was not looking forward to it.

After the final chime died out, Malcolm opened his eyes to continue working. No, wait, fuck, he needed to stretch. He stood and began to wander around the room, cricking every joint in his body he could. This was going to get very old, very fast.

That was when it happened. The door to his office that he had left open closed on its own, with both locking. He was about to investigate when the window curtains spontaneously drew themselves. Turning around, he tried to figure out who was there, who was playing the prank. Was it Jamie? The wee cunt—he'd have to chew him out later.

Except it wasn't Jamie, as he soon found out; a green lick of flame appeared in the fireplace behind his desk. It grew larger until it was the size of a roaring fire and out of the flame stepped a young woman, who then proceeded to stumble smack into his chair.

"What the…?!" she gasped. Glancing around, her face looked like she was remapping the entire room from scratch. "You redecorated. I don't like it."

"Sorry sweetheart, but I don't like having my back to an open window within sight of a rooftop, if you get the idea," he snarked. "Now what the fuck is going on?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Malcolm Tucker," the woman said. She walked around his desk and held out her hand, which he took and shook cautiously. "My name is Clara Oswald, and I am the Director of Communications for the Minister of Magic."

"The Minister… of… Magic…" he echoed. His eyes flicked from the fireplace back to her and his mind began to race. Had he already jumped off the deep end? Was he still dreaming? Did he die? Was this just his mind telling him he needed a good shag already, considering how fit and gorgeous the short, northern brunette in front of him was? He _had_ been going without for a long time due to work…

"No, you are not imagining things," Clara assured. She sat herself down on one of the large easy-chairs and pulled a long stick from her sleeve. Flicking it in the air, a tea service appeared out of thin air and began to pour itself. "How many lumps?"

"Uh… four…" he replied. Malcolm cautiously sat down and his teacup floated towards him. He stared at it, unsure what to do.

"Don't worry; it's quite safe," she said, taking a sip of her own tea. He tried his and found that it was _perfect_. "Now, I assume that the Prime Minister told you nothing about the Ministry of Magic?"

"I'd think before tonight I would have written him off as a nutter had he did," he replied.

"Well, I'm here to tell you that there are going to be times where we're working together in the near future," she explained. Clara waved the stick—no, _wand_ —above the service and a couple biscuits settled themselves in each of their saucers. "Now, I can't exactly predict _when_ and to what capacity, but usually the rule is that we see one another before our bosses do. The Minister of Magic really doesn't like to bother the PM unless it's an utmost emergency, but sometimes there are going to be things that you can't exactly safely explain away unless you have the proper story behind it."

"So there's a bunch of magical pissers running around, enough to have their own ministry, and you're the one who needs to sweep shit under the rugs, and sometimes you need my help."

"We will need each other's help, if I'm to be deadly honest," she clarified. "You help me and I help you, though not because we work on a favor system. Occasionally you have to deal with some pranksters releasing hinkypunks into the Tube, while I deal with a Muggle family that accidentally set up their caravan holiday in a centaur grazing ground."

"Muggles…?"

" _'Non-magical folk'_ , people like you, most of your staff, the average British citizen. It's not a slur, trust me."

"Wait, most of my staff? Who…?!"

"Samantha Cassidy is what we like to call a 'Muggle-born' witch, or a witch born from two Muggle parents. Mostly the genetic marker for magical competence stays in families, but because there is a long history of Squibs—or non-magic folk born to a witch and wizard—marrying into Muggle communities, the trait occasionally occurs spontaneously within the general population." Clara smiled brazenly as she watched Malcolm's jaw drop lower and lower. "Surprised?"

"My Sam…? A _witch_ …?"

"One of the more competent ones in her level, if I recall correctly," she said. "Sam was a few years under me in school, and I remember her well. Cheerful and friendly and not about to let her magical talent take her away from what she really wanted to do in life."

"So Sam… is a witch…" Malcolm repeated, going slowly. He sipped his tea and furrowed his brow in concentration, feeling like an idiotic pile of shit. "Witches and wizards are everywhere in London, right under my nose, and you're the witch version of me. I'm a Muggle, most people are Muggles, and sometimes Muggles don't have Muggle children. You travel through fireplaces and we'll need to rely on each other in the future for when our societies overlap a bit too much."

"That's about the gist of it, though I _do_ have proper security clearance and can come into Number 10 the normal way," Clara nodded. "I just wanted to make sure that our first meeting was alone, and that no one saw me coming in. It'd be ruinous for the new Director of Communications to have a much-younger woman meeting him in the dead of night at his office of all places."

"That's true," he agreed. He looked at her and frowned inwardly. Yes, she was a bit younger than him. Maybe not by twenty years, but at least fifteen. "Will we see one another often?"

"That depends on who screws up and how," she replied.

"Hopefully it's not me that cocks up—you seem like the kind of person we need more of around here," he said, attempting to regain his cool demeanor. He flashed her a grin and she rolled her eyes, chuckling.

"…and lose one of the few actual brains within the Ministry of Magic? Nice try," she said. "Thank you for allowing this meeting, Mister Tucker, and for believing me so thoroughly and quickly."

"I don't know what the fuck a hacky-puck is, or where to find a centaur, but I'm glad there's someone out there who knows their shit that can help," he said. Malcolm stood up and offered her a hand, which she took. Her fingers were incredibly small and dainty within his own, which made him feel like he nearly shouldn't let go. "So, I'll see you around?"

"You can count on it," Clara said. She let go of his hand and winked at him; with a swish and a flick of her wand she was gone, just as mysteriously as she came.

The only reason he knew that she was even there the following day was waking up on the couch next to her tea service. He picked up one of the delicate cups and looked at the hand-painted lions encompassing it. There was also her lipstick, which made him chuckle slightly. _Magic_ … he knew it.


	2. Ghost Pianos, 2005

A/N: Luck for us all, I got in another prompt for this story before I closed my blog to them. The following chapter establishes ages, as well as the year.

* * *

It was really pathetic in Malcolm's opinion that the best part of the week so far was being able to sneak his old press pal Jamie MacDonald into work with an old pass and a sharp glare. The two were relaxing in his office, waiting for the next emergency that would pull him away, when Sam poked her head into the room.

"Malcolm, Miss Oswald's here for your appointment," she announced. He blinked at her, confused at first, but it quickly clicked into place.

"Oh, thank you—nearly forgot. Right, Jamie, piss off. Oswald's a private sector bird and I haven't gauged yet how she'd handle a randy little cunt like you."

"Ach, no problem Malc; add a finger or two in there for me, eh?" the smaller Scotsman smirked. He was walking out the door as Clara was walking in, with her giving him a polite nod. Soon as they passed one another he spun around, taking a good, long look at her from behind. He gave Malcolm an approving grin, flipped a V, and left.

"Sorry if you were kept waiting long," Malcolm apologized, silently offering Clara a seat. "The guards around here aren't exactly known for being courteous."  
"It's not a problem," she said. She did not take the chair, instead standing while keeping her face straight. "Unfortunately, I'm not here on a social call."

"He frowned at that. "Who fucked up?"

"A group of pureblood wizards recently came into possession of some Muggle pianos that they thought funny to bewitch and sell back to the general public. We've recovered two so far, but there are at least three more out there."

"Just my fucking luck," he groaned, drawing his hands over his face. "I take it this is pretty serious, or you wouldn't be here."

"Normally the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office would handle this, but even after the recent reform it's been short-staffed, swamped, and filled with incompetence, so I thought I'd use the opportunity to show you the Ministry."

"My waking fucking nightmare is pieces of shite where they don't belong, sweetheart. Pardon, but my ultimate wet dream is a quiet week at work." He then paused, raising an eyebrow. "Pureblood wizards?"

"Some families take pride in the fact that their lines have been magic for generations," she explained. "Occasionally it just happens that magic marries magic, but Anti-Muggle stigma that arose after the Statute of Secrecy was enacted virtually guaranteed inbreeding that make the European Royal Houses seem like strangers."

"Which are you?" he wondered. "Obviously you don't find it impressive, so I'm guessing you're not one of them."

"Dad is a Muggle and Mum was a Muggle-born," she offered. "Didn't make my life easy as a kid."

"I can imagine," he said sympathetically. "Classist shites can be some of the worst."

"A Caledonian for life, I take it?"

"Naw, wannae make yeh think that?" he asked, letting his accent go as Weegie as he allowed in the hallowed halls of Number 10.

Clara allowed a small smile before continuing. "I'd like if we could go down to the Ministry now, if you don't mind, so you can see one of the pianos in action," she said. "Sam will field all your calls and appointments in the meantime."

"You alright with that, Sammy?" Malcolm called out. His assistant walked into the office, papers in-hand and a chuckle on her lips.

"As far as anyone will know, you have a doctor's appointment with a specialist that you cannot move," she replied. "Any preference?"

"Heart—baseline blood pressure tests and shite like that. Whatever you get paid, it's not nearly enough." The two high-fived as Malcolm followed Clara out of the room, the former knowing that Sam was more than capable of holding down the fort while he was gone.

Instead of going in the Tube, Malcolm was a bit confused when Clara simply led him straight into an alleyway that he had never been down before. He glanced around; it was too empty to be in the heart of London.

"We shouldn't be here," he said, scanning the area skittishly. "Something's telling me it's not safe."

"That's the magic barriers working," she said simply. "This corridor's bewitched to keep Muggles out, so those who are clever enough to notice are too scared to investigate further."

"Ah," he replied. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept on walking, a new pep in his step. "Get a lot of people who resist the urge to flee?"

"Not many," she bragged. "You're actually the first Muggle guest in a long time that hasn't given a Ministry worker trouble." She stopped in front of a blue police box and opened the door. "Here we are: the Visitors' Entrance."  
Malcolm stared at it, not sure what to say. "It's… uh…"

"It used to be a phone booth, but with cell phones becoming common and the revival series earlier this year, those of us in the know decided to have a bit of fun," she winked. They then crammed in together, Clara pressed a button on the side of the phone, and the interior of the box began to lower itself into the ground.

When the doors opened to let them out again, Malcolm's eyes went wide as he took in the sight before him. Owls and paper airplanes darted around one another in the air while people dressed varying shades of weird walked along the ground. He kept on spinning around as he followed Clara through the throng of people, taking in the high-ceilinged atrium and its occupants with every second he could.

" _Fuck_ ," was all he was able to get out as they approached the security desk. The guard manning it took one look at Malcolm and snorted.

"Need a Memory Charm on him when you leave?" he asked Clara.

"No—we need this one aware," she replied. She took the visitor's badge from the guard and clipped it to Malcolm's jacket, giving it a pat. "Don't we need you to remember everything about this visit?"

"Either I know what happens here or Britain knows what happens here; take your pick," he scowled. His hostess took him by the arm and dragged him away and towards the lifts, She shoved him in one and followed him in, pressing the "2" button and standing patiently as several paper airplanes flew in to join them.

"So, email hasn't caught on yet, has it?" Malcolm asked, poking one of the papers.

"Not sure whether to refer to it as an enforced aesthetic or mandatory Kool-Aid," Clara deadpanned. The lift then began to move, going in every-which direction, reminding the Muggle of the Wonkavator, of all things. "Besides, anything more technical than a Walkman tends to not work when in this high a concentration of magical beings and spells. Most of the people here are worse than your gran when it comes to computers."

"Granny was a decoder and made computer punch cards."

"You know what I mean," she said. The lift then stopped, letting them out at the appropriate floor. Clara flashed her badge and they walked right past the receptionist, straight into a room that held nothing but a grand piano.

"It's a piano," Malcolm observed.

"Not just an ordinary piano anymore," Clara said. She pressed a key at random and the instrument began to play itself.

"So it's a player piano."

"Wait for it," she said. Calmly, she counted down on her fingers and pointed at the piano just in time for a ghost to appear, playing the piano with an eerie, dead-eyed grin on its face.

"Yeah, I can see how this could be a problem," he agreed. "Where'd you pick up the two?"

"This one came from a country estate in Kent and the one they're working on repairing was from Berkshire. It looks like they're targeting higher-class Muggles… ones that can make the largest stink possible."

"Hence why I'm involved."

"As Head of the Office of Misinformation and Chair of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, it's my call on whether or not to bring you into this now or later, and since these falsified hauntings can pop up in your coworkers' homes, now is a much better time." Clara waved her wand and the ghost vanished.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah: I thought you were the Minister of Magic's Director of Communications?"

"I am—it's a post that involves multiple positions and the ability to multitask… almost living different lives at times. They don't call me 'The Impossible Girl' for nothing."

"Okay then…" Malcolm mused. "How about when I need to get a hold of you and Sam isn't around? So far we've been lucky, but what if I'm over at a place that has one of these things and she's on holiday or something?"

"Oh, good point—we're going to have to stop by my office then and see what we can do about getting a Charm placed on you so all you need to do is stick your writing hand out the window and think to summon an owl. I have a mobile, but you'll have to get that from Sam, and I don't trust it in here for a moment."

"How far away from this place does it usually take for a mobile to work?" he asked.

"Once we're out of the protective barrier on the street it's usually fine," she replied. "I spend a lot of time here, if that's what you're asking."

"Just wondering," he grinned. "Maybe if I need to talk to you about ghosts popping out of the bog next I might be able to do so over dinner."

"Aren't you a little old for me?" she giggled. He gave her a quick look-over, puzzled.

"I'm forty-four and you're what… twenty-nine?"

"Twenty- _three_ ; Impossible _Girl_ , remember?" Clara took delight in the utter confusion on Malcolm's face as the tips of his ears burned red. "Nothing wrong with a friendly dinner now and then between professionals, now is there?"

"No, I, uh, guess there isn't."


	3. World Cup, 2006

A/N: Whoops, looks like I got another prompt! I think that overall this story is going to be only semi-linear, since right now we're jumping ahead a year and putting things in 2006. This one was pretty fun to write as well, even though some details will likely be both disproven in the near future and not aligning with others' headcanons.

* * *

Malcolm was in the middle of a shout over at Transport when he got the call from his boss. He excused himself and went inside an empty office—a call from the PM was never good.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, audibly grinning.

" _Shacklebolt asked me to accompany him to World Cup, but I really can't because I'm busy. Will you go in my place? I saw your schedule is remarkably free._ "

"I… uh…"

" _Thanks—I'll give him the news the ticket won't go to waste. You're a life-saver, you little cunt. Knew I liked you for a reason. Bye!_ "

The connection dropped and Malcolm stared at his mobile. World Cup? Shacklebolt? Hitting speed-dial, he rang up the only person he could trust on the matter.

" _Yes Malcolm?_ "

"Sam, help: I was just press-ganged by the Powers That Be into going to a World Cup in his place, and I don't think it involves going to Germany…"

" _That would be Quidditch_ ," she chuckled. " _I'm not very good with the rules—being Muggle-born meant I went to matches for the social aspect—but I can get someone to help you who knows the game inside and out_."

"Great; you're a life-saver, Sammy," he breathed. "I'd say if I needed a plus one I'd offer it to you, but…"

" _No, chances are that there's only the one, but I'm flattered. Now hurry up and finish your shout so you can get a crash-course in Pointless Confusion 101_."

That Malcolm did; no use in disappointing his coworkers.

* * *

Three hours later, Malcolm walked into his office to find a familiar face talking with his PA. Clara and Sam were giggling about something when he arrived, only to stop once they saw him.

"I should've known," he chuckled. "Do you ladies want me to leave for just a second? I can give you about fifteen—twenty if you let me nab the mag I've got in the desk drawer." Yes they were professionals, but still young and close enough to school to be considered fresh out of it. They deserved some gossip time if they wanted.

"I'm here to tutor you in Quidditch, so tutor you I shall," Clara said. She took a seat on the sofa and took out her wand, swirling it gently above the table, conjuring a miniature pitch. Malcolm sat next to her, poking gently at one of the goal hoops.

"This is what it's played on?" he wondered.

"More like what it's played _in_ ," she clarified. "Those right there are the goals. There is one Keeper per team to keep out the Quaffle, which is just a red football for the most part." She pointed her wand towards the sets of goal posts, conjuring a blue Keeper and a white. Another swish of her wand and six more figures appeared, zooming about on their tiny brooms. "Then there are three Chasers; they try to get a goal past the Keeper, each time being worth ten points."

"Okay… is that it?" he frowned. "Doesn't seem too complicated."

"That's because we're not done yet." She flicked her wrist and two more players for each side appeared. "These are Beaters, and their job is to bat one of two Bludgers into their opponents to knock them off their brooms. _Officially_ , it's their job to keep the things simply away from their teammates, but most of us know better."

"So a bit of football, a bit of rugby, and a dash of cricket, but all on brooms," he spelled out. "Why do I feel like there's something missing?"

"That's because there is," Clara nodded. She held her wand about a foot from Malcolm's face and created another pair of flyers in their respective team colors. Squinting slightly, he could see that they were tiny Claras. "These are the Seekers. While the Quaffle doesn't move and is about the size of a football, and the Bludgers attack players and is the size of a child's football, the Seekers are searching for the Snitch, which is about the size of a walnut and golden in color. They catch that and the game is over." The Clara-Seekers zoomed over to the pitch and joined their teammates.

"Is the Snitch worth anything?" he asked.

"A hundred and fifty points," she replied. "Sometimes teams win without catching the Snitch, but the opposite is much more likely. They're annoying little things."

"You sound like you've played before."

"I was a utility player in school," she explained. "My preferred position was Beater, but I'm a natural Seeker. Like jockeys, the smaller and lighter you are, the easier it tends to be."

He looked at her, trying not to grin. "You, one of those Beaters? I find that difficult to believe."

"Mentored the Headmistress's nephew in the position, and he ended up Gryffindor Captain," she bragged. Malcolm's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Griffin door? What the fuck's a griffin door?"

"The major wizarding school in all the UK and Ireland is Hogwarts, and since it's a boarding school, it's broken up into four houses, Gryffindor being one."

"Was that where you were?" he asked.

"Yes—I was a Gryffindor while Sam was a Ravenclaw," she explained. "Students get sorted into the different houses based on key personality traits. My boyfriend during school was a Hufflepuff and I can easily see you being a Slytherin."

"All this sounds like you were huffling and puffling while you made it all up," he admitted. He leaned forward and watched the tiny figures play their game. "Did your boyfriend play?"

"Keeper; he was tall and had a decent reach. Rumor had it a couple scouts were interested in him to play pro."

"Did he become a magical accountant instead?"

"No… let's just say that 1998 wasn't a good year," she said.

"Fair enough." He finally took his eyes off the pitch and saw that Clara's eyes had grown sad. "So, where's the World Cup at this year? Certainly not in Merkeland, is it?"

"No—the Quidditch World Cup is in Argentina this year," she laughed, snapping out of her small funk. "Some people are calling it the Pompous Cup as a joke, since they're really going all-out for it."

"Argentina…? Forgive me, but what the fuck's in Argentina other than not-llamas, crusty Nazis, and the tango?"

"The premier Spanish-language wizarding academy in the world, not to mention one of the best overall when it comes to environmental magic and beastiary studies," she said. "The Pampas is pretty much a giant magic community as well, with swaths of it supporting whole communities of witches and wizards. We've only got one such village here in the UK, so it's a fairly impressive feat to have multiple, let alone the dozens they have."

"Lucky them," he said. Malcolm looked back at the pitch and pondered for a moment. "Hey, do you think there's a game somewhere I can go see? Just so I don't look like a total ponce when I attend this thing? There pub leagues?"  
"Not necessarily a pub league, but I can find you a demonstration," Clara smirked. "You free this afternoon?"

"I'm free now until tomorrow—had Sam clear my schedule for it," he replied.

"Good," she said. After waving the miniature pitch and players away in a puff of smoke, Clara stood in a bare spot of the room, holding out her arm for Malcolm to take. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Clara?"

"I'm taking your boss on a field trip; back in a bit."

"Okay!"

"Come on now—take my arm and hold still," Clara commanded. Malcolm did, and almost instantly there was a slight tugging feeling from behind his navel and—POP—they were gone.

* * *

As far as work-related research trips were concerned, this one took the cake for being high on his list of fucktasticly shitty things he could be doing with an afternoon. He was twenty feet in the air, hands and legs clinging to a broomstick, and, to make matters worse, _upside down_.

"Clara, _help_ ," he growled. His magical counterpart gracefully floated up to him, righting his broom so that he was level. He grimaced though, as he landed on one of the more _sensitive_ areas of his body, not enjoying it.

"How's it going?" she asked, having a difficult time keeping a straight face. "The broom behaving for you?"

"I know you said this is a Muggle-friendly model, but I highly doubt it," he scowled. "How do wizards ever have any tinier wizards while riding this raging stiffie all day?"

"It's called _technique_ ," she said.

"Yeah, that's what one of the little brats down there told me," he frowned, gesturing towards the group of children on the other side of the park, playing a pickup game of Quidditch. Their Bludgers were squishy foam and their bats plastic, and their parents sat not too far away socializing. "Bad enough they teased me for… what was that…?"

"Apparition Sickness."

"That; are all magic kids little pricks?"

"Only as often as Muggle children. Come on; let's see if we can take you around a course without falling off before we have to turn in these rentals."


	4. Werewolves, 2008

A/N: I actually wrote another prompt fill for this story before this specific chapter, but since this one takes place before it, I'm posting this on in the main story and the other second. There's also a lot of fanon in here, so don't fret if you're a big-time HP fan and are confused by something.

* * *

Werewolves.

A decent chunk of a charity function's planning committee was now lying in an intensive care ward, as quarantined as possible, while the remainder were in a different ward getting checked-over for symptoms of other potential maladies. A couple radical werewolves decided that they were going to attack a group of high-ranking Muggles, with the purpose of rocking the Statute of Secrecy into the public light. They were not happy with the rate of normalization with the Lupin Laws and wanted to bring that to the forefront of politics.

"Bunch o' fucking tits," Malcolm scowled, looking through the door window. Clara was next to him, her arms folded across her chest. "So are they going to become werewolves now? Like something out of that Twilight shite?"

"We've been working on medicine to reverse werewolfism and prevent the spread of the disease, but there's still lots of progress that needs to be made," she replied. "Luckily, it's to the point where we can prevent the disease taking hold in about half of all cases, though most of those have been with magical patients or patients regularly exposed to magic."

"Fuck—all of these cunts are safely tucked into their own boring, non-magic worlds," he exhaled. He ran his fingers through his hair and put his hands on his hips. "What's the rate for the Mugglest of the Muggles?" She just stared at him, shifting on her hips. "That bad, eh?"

"You're looking at a bunch of brand new werewolves right here, pretty much," she said. "They need to be kept for a couple months so that Healers can both check the severity and so they can adjust. St. Mungo's has potions to make it manageable, but they're looking into other options."

"Other options?"

Clara began to walk away, with Malcolm following her down the corridor. "There's a couple of wizarding hospitals in the WSPA that are doing some research into Wolfsbane alternatives. They've made some breakthroughs, but there are too many dead-ends popping up for it to be considered a mainstream cure."

"Sounds interesting," he mused, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Can you tell me how common this is?"

"It comes and goes; numbers of the newly-affected have dropped in the last ten years, but the Lupin Laws are only going so far."

"Awareness and empathy and all that jazz?"

"Something like that. MPM Granger does her best, but she's spread thin."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "You don't sound fully convinced of that statement yourself."

"Too much emotion is put into her department," she shrugged. They turned a corner, headed down a different corridor. "Granger is highly logical, but she forgets that she needs to leave her emotions at home."

"No need to say more," he said. "So… what do you want _me_ to say? There's no shit being pitched yet, but it's only a matter of time."

"It was a random attack, with the perpetrators apprehended and no lingering threat to the community, but the gas used in their attacks requires specialized attention from private research hospitals, hence the fact they are difficult to reach. The authorities are involved and it looks like there was nothing connecting the belligerents and their targets, and they just idolize the Joker a bit too much."

"That sounds like something that'd happen," Malcolm agreed reluctantly. "So the, uh, Americans… are they the only ones with enough money to do research?"

"No, but Healers at St. Mungo's are in talks all the time with Healers at St. Maurus's in Acadia, and they're networked with hospitals in Lakotah, Cottrell, Wapiti, and California," Clara explained.

"Okay, I fucking understood one of those things, so I'm going to assume that's all on-the-level," he frowned. "What are you going to do with the tossers that lucked out?"

"Observe; the Head Healer says they can likely be Obliviated and put back into the regular population within the next couple of days," she said. They found their way down a flight of stairs and into the main-floor lobby, which was empty save for the two of them; late-night visitors took the Floo Network in with a special pass. "Do you think you can find your way from here?"

"Yeah, Tube's that way…" he said, pointing to the west, "…but I was wondering what you were going to go do."

"…and why would _I_ worry you?" she wondered, morbidly curious. "The muggers should be more afraid of me than you."

"I know the look you've got—haven't eaten dinner because of this, have you?" She went to fire back, but an ill-timed squelch of her stomach made her rescind all grievances before they were even made. "You got some time now or do you need to keep hold of the wizarding press?"

"The last agenda item to make it here was you, and that was only because Muggle transport is so slow," she admitted. "What could you possibly have in mind? It's almost half-past midnight."

"Got an old local around here that serves some orgasmic fish and chips, if you're interested. I know you say you've got a commute, but isn't that about two seconds? Three with congestion?"

"Aren't you a funny one?" she deadpanned. Clara glanced at her watch and sighed, giving in. "Chips do sound pretty good right about now. Place isn't far, is it?"

"Nope—just a couple blocks and we're set," he assured her. Malcolm bent his elbow out and waited for her to take it. She did, which made him grin nearly from ear to ear.

* * *

Within half an hour, Malcolm and Clara were sitting down in a pub that was only halfway-dingy, drinks in-hand and a basket of fish and chips being set in front of each of them. They dug in once the owner left, with Clara letting out a tiny whimper.

"Fuck, these are good," she moaned. "You certainly weren't kidding, were you?"

"Naw; the only being whose orgasm-inducing capabilities I joke about is Jamie's, and that's because I've never known the wee devil to actually introduce me to a soul yet despite his claims of conquests." Malcolm picked up a piece of fish and bit into it, chewing idly as he took in the sight of the other patrons in the room. No one was really paying attention to them, which seemed odd to him. "Hey, did you pull one of those things that make people ignore shit?"

"No, why?"

"Just seems weird that we're not regulars and are fucking ignored," he said. He looked over at his dining companion, tilting his head curiously. "Sam doesn't count, since she's used to doing things the Muggle way, but do you know what wizards and witches do in place of going to the local?"

"We… go to the local," Clara stated. "Lots of magic folk are the only ones in their town and try to blend in the best they can because they're married to Muggles or Muggle-borns. There are magic-only places here and there, but they're usually more like clubs with dues and things. A wizarding _nightclub_ exists somewhere on Tottenham Court, but I wouldn't know how to find it."

"Power young made you a bore, didn't it?" Malcolm teased. "Come on—even _I_ had a punk phase, as weird as that is to admit."

"Despite being a former Gryffindor, I'm intensely ambitious," she said through some more chips. "I want to _do shit_ with my life, you know? Get things done, make a name for myself, be important; it just means I'm not meant for a sweaty dance floor and PVC skirts."

"Slytherin's the ambition one, yeah?"

"Yeah, and Gryffindor is courage. I didn't understand why I was sorted into that house, since I thought I'd be Ravenclaw like Mum…"

"…intellect…"

"…correct. I am brave though—just took me a while to realize why." She became quiet and focused her eyes on her food, waiting for him to change the subject. When he didn't, she continued on. "Mum died in '97, right before I went back to school, thanks to some wizards that were making things fairly shitty for people with lots of Muggle in their blood. Many people were brave during that school year, but it took a bigger toll on some more than others."

"I see," he said, taking a sip of water. "Magic is dangerous, even for kids."

"Simply put, yeah." She leaned her head on his shoulder and continued eating. "Thanks for understanding."

"Not a problem; us magicians of spin and words have to stick together," he replied, making no move to shove her off. One day, he'd get her to tell him everything, but that day was not anywhere in the near future, that much he knew.

* * *

A/N: The WSPA stands for the Wizarding States and Provinces of America, which is a wizarding country formed in North America in 1781 to govern magical activity in the United States and Canada, working with both Muggle governments.


	5. A Favor, 2010

A/N: So I wrote this chapter before the previous one, but waited to post it, and you'll probably figure out why. The story (clearly) is going to be non-linear after a while.

Also, takes place about 2010, meaning Clara's 28 and Malcolm's 49.

* * *

Malcolm stared at his mobile, wondering if he should call. He'd gone over most other options in his head and the fact that he was unable to think of a better alternative than what he was about to do. Careers could be on the line, he reminded himself, and he picked up the mobile, hitting the necessary numbers quickly.

If this was the option he was going with, he was genuinely fucked.

"Malcolm? Do you realize what _time_ it is?" Clara yawned as she answered the call. "I don't normally get up for another _hour_ …"

"I think this'll be worth your time," he replied. "Can you please come down to my office? Soon as possible? I wouldn't be asking if this wasn't very important."

"Okay; move your chair," she grumbled before terminating the call. Malcolm wheeled his desk chair over to the corner and waited. Fifteen minutes later Clara came out of the fireplace in a flash of green flame looking rather perturbed.

"What the _fuck_ is the problem?" she hissed. "It better be good or you will spend the rest of your natural life thinking you're a six-year-old girl named Legrita who has crushes on _every boy_."

"I need a Memory Charm," he said, ignoring the rare profanity that came from her mouth. "I've been _very_ careful about anything and everything I've done, and this might be one of the things that could seriously fuck us over."

Clara narrowed her stare and lifted an eyebrow. "What did you do…? Does this have anything to do with that top-level corruption scandal that's been going on?"

"Sort of," he admitted. "I haven't been home for more than a shave and a shower in the past four days and… well… it's been taking its toll on me in more ways than one."

"Do I _want_ to know…?" she asked, crinkling her nose.

"No, but you have to, and I'm sorry," he apologized. "You see, Julius Nicholson—"

"Lord Armitage? The one with a Squib mother?"

"Yeah, him; he caught me about an hour ago in the loo. Night cleaning crew's gone and no one else should've been around for a long while, so I thought I'd go have a wank where there weren't any cameras watching me stroke off and…"

"Oh, Merlin's beard, _Malcolm_!" she cringed, disgusted. "You got me out of bed because Lord Egghead caught you with your prick out?!"

His skin flushed red and he swallowed hard. "Not just that; I was being guiltily specific about it to boot. Poncyfuck's an ally right now, but that doesn't mean he'll be on my side forever, or that his knowledge can't be used against us."

"Why do you keep saying 'us'?" Clara asked warily. "Malcolm…?"

"Not the way I wanted to break it to you, but I'm really, really sorry…" He was about to say more, but she cut him off with a smack to his cheek.

"You have some _nerve_ ," she sneered. "The flirting has been one thing, but being your wet dream?! How long has this been going on?!"

"Only very recently, I can assure you," he replied, rubbing his sore cheek. "Trust me: I wouldn't bother you with this if I didn't already know for a fact that you're one of the best witches around and that Sammy's shit at Charms. It's _embarrassing_ , let alone not something I'd rather you know about me. I only think the best of you, Clara, and I was waiting out seeing if you'd be open to the idea, honest." Malcolm cowered as the woman before him whipped out her wand, pointing it at him furiously. She could destroy him in one blow, with one word, and if this was the way he was going to go, at least the one thing he had on his chest would be off it.

"Huh… you're telling the truth," Clara muttered. Malcolm looked and saw that she was staring at the tip of her wand, which was glowing bright green. She pocketed it and checked her mobile, her scowl turning into merely a tight-lipped frown. After tapping a bunch of buttons she put it away and began to walk towards the door. "Alright, now show me where he is so early in the bloody morning."

"Shouldn't we be worried about the CCTV?" he asked as they went into the corridors.

"Temporarily disabled them—we've got twenty minutes of them looping the same five seconds to get to Armitage, do what we have to, and get back to your office," she growled. "I am _not_ happy with you, Malcolm."

"I understand, yeah."

"If you wanted more than flirting, you should have told me, not this nonsense."

"I told you, I was gauging your interest. If you didn't seem receptive, I would have dropped it."

"…but in the meantime, you kept at it from afar like some sort of lecherous pervert. Seriously, did you ever mature out of secondary school?"

"'Course I did, just… I'm the Wolf of Whitehall. Everyone thinks I don't want a pack and crush any possibility before it becomes a thought."

Clara stopped in the middle of the corridor and took hold of his elbow, looking up at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you'd understand," he said. "Our jobs are similar, yeah?"

"Yeah, but…"

"We make our living being the unholy terrors of our workplaces—doesn't that make you lonely too?"

"We'll talk about this later," she said, remembering the time. They rushed down to the meeting room where Nicholson was setting things up for a presentation, the sight of his guests bringing a grin to his face.

"Well, if it isn't the lovebirds," he beamed happily. "Oh, please tell me that you're here to ask for recommendations for a wedding coordinator. I know some excellent event planners who deal with both sides of the Statute."

"Thanks, but I'm sorry I have to do this, Julius. Nothing personal," Clara said. She took her wand out and flung a bolt of light towards him. It bounced off, as if he had silently cast a shield, and came ricocheting back towards her. Before she knew it, Malcolm had pushed her side and took the hit, the power behind it strong enough to fling him into the wall before he crumpled onto the floor.

"Oh dear me," Julius tutted. He walked around the table and saw Clara crouched down, Malcolm's head in her lap. "Is he hurt?"

"No, just out cold," she replied. "I'm sorry… it was just supposed to be a memory wipe of the past couple hours, nothing more."

"Has a little something to do with the position I found Mister Tucker in earlier, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded silently and he exhaled in resignation. "Don't worry—Mama left me with a very important thing that prevents my mind from being manipulated. She feared that it would happen, being that Papa was passing me a title, so she had a friend of hers make me this." He took his tie clip and held it towards her, showing off the gem in the center that glimmered with magic. "I won't tell, nor can anyone force it out of me. Promise."

"Thank you," she sighed. "Well, now at least the berk can't remember the _idiotic_ decision he made to stroke off while thinking of me to begin with."

"It's been my experience that Malcolm Tucker doesn't let his affections lie just anywhere," Julius explained. "He's got a good heart, even if he doesn't show it, and you two make a good team. I honestly did think there was something going on between you and I didn't think anything of it."

"I know we make a good team, but, are we able to make a relationship work?" she wondered. Clara glanced down at the unconscious man in her arms and tried to smile. "Just, please forget this ever happened, okay?"

"I won't even need a Charm to do so," Julius chuckled.

It took Clara another manipulation of the CCTV feeds, but she was able to levitate Malcolm's limp form back to his office without being caught by any of the other early-morning birds that were flitting around the offices. She set him down on his couch and drew the blinds, sitting down afterward so that she still held his head in her lap. Watching him, she nearly fell asleep herself before he bolted upright, gulping down air in terror.

"Fuck, I fell asleep," he cursed. "If I don't write that speech I'm…" He then noticed Clara sitting next to him, his eyes going wide. "What are you doing here?"

"Is it true?" she asked.

"…is _what_ true?"

"Let's call it a witch's intuition: do you want to stop flirting and start fucking?"

The bluntness of her response made him double-take in surprise. "A witch's intuition is precise, I'll give you that." His expression grew guilty and he adverted his gaze. "Only if you'd want it. If not, I'll survive; wouldn't be the first time I'd need to keep a working relationship with someone who turned me down."

"Oi, idiot, just kiss me," she said. He then did exactly that, scooting down the couch and holding her face with both hands as he did so. When he leaned back, she let out a tiny laugh, thoroughly amused at the whole situation. "You want to be alone, together, Mister Lone Wolf?"

"Yeah, I'd really like that."


	6. Firewhisky, 2010

A/N: This chapter takes place a couple months after the previous one; this is of course taking into consideration that Malcolm is stated to be an alcoholic in TTOI, and so there are a few gross things involved with that, so fair warning

* * *

 _Firewhisky, 2010_

"You're my plus one," Clara said resolutely, fussing over Malcolm's suit. He tried to crouch back and avoid her, but his back was literally against the wall as the tiny woman spruced him up to her standards. Considering he wasn't exactly a slouch, her standards were pretty fucking high.

"Yeah, I know, I get it—just what the fuck are you going over me for? It's not like I'm ill-suited to the occasion. We're going to an office party."

"It may be an office party, but it's a _wizarding_ office party, which means that we're going to have plenty of people examining and reexamining every single detail about you simply because you're Muggle."

"Not because we're dating?"

"While that _is_ a concern, it's going to be moreso at my cousin Oswin's wedding," she replied firmly. "Now remember to watch your drink, don't talk to the portraits, don't stare, and for Pete's sake—if you _want_ to get laid by someone other than a prostitute for the next month, I suggest you keep the colorful parts of your speech to a dull, boring grey."

"Better than a creamy, interesting brown," he muttered as she made the final adjustments on his jacket. She tapped the side of his head and pulled him down for a peck on the lips.

"You are horrid."

"I am _Scottish_."

"That doesn't give you an all-encompassing pass; now come along or we'll be late."

Stepping into the Floo Network in Malcolm's office took them to a pub where all manner of magical folk were milling about. The Muggle kept his eyes ahead of him as Clara led him down a corridor and towards a private room where there were already a few people standing around chatting.

Clara introduced her date and could feel the tension in the room. Not all of it was bad, but it was certainly palpable. She brought a Muggle to a Wizard's party—it was like bringing a gun to a wand-duel.

* * *

As the night went on, Clara decided to allow Malcolm to go off on his own amongst the other party-goers to get his toes wet with magical folk that were not either her or Sam. He seemed to be getting along alright, so she turned her attention away to the department heads she was attempting to talk out of building a giant, multi-pitch Quidditch center in the middle of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Everything seemed to be going fine until there was a tap on her shoulder and one of her coworkers appeared behind her.

"Uh… sorry Miss Oswald, but I think your date just passed out," he said. She could smell firewhisky on his breath, which made her crinkle her nose in distaste. Glancing around him, she could see Malcolm sitting down in a chair, his head tilted back and his mouth open as if he were sleeping. Clara didn't even excuse herself as she put down her drink and walked away from the conversation, going up to her beau in an attempt to wake him up.

"Malcolm, hey… Malcolm, can you hear me?" She gently patted his cheek to no response, shooting a glare at her coworker afterwards. "What the _fuck_ did you do?!"

"I only gave him a couple shots of firewhisky," he replied. "Well… couple shots' _worth_ , but…"

"You. Are. A. **_Moron_** ," Clara hissed. She flicked her wrist, wand in-hand, and silently cast a charm on Malcolm that allowed her to carry him over her shoulder easily. Without another word, she stormed from the party and went back to the fireplace, snatching some Floo Powder from the sconce in the wall.

"Raven's Rook," she declared, tossing the powder to the floor. Licks of green flame enveloped them both and spat them out in the sitting area of a tiny cottage. Clara dragged Malcolm through the house, gently placing him down on the bathroom floor, sitting upright and against the tub. Within moments he woke up and vomited into the toilet, moaning loudly on the end tail.

" _Fuck_ … what happened…?" he muttered, grabbing hold of his head with one hand. The other he was using to clutch the toilet with, and he vomited again into the bowl.

"What do you remember?" Clara asked, squatting down so that she was face-level with him. She rubbed his back in an attempt to soothe him. "I know most of it, but I need anything you can tell me."

"Someone offered to go get a round for the lot of us and I accepted," he said, blinking heavily as he recalled the party. "I thought he realized I was drinking juice until I was slamming the rest down." Malcolm then began to dry-heave, nothing more in his system to purge. "Holy _fuck_ —my throat is on _fire_! What did that cunt give me?!"

"Firewhisky, and too much of it by the look of things." She rested on her knees and carefully pulled Malcolm's jacket off of him, letting him undo his tie and topmost shirt buttons on his own. He heaved again, tears leaking out of his shut eyes. "Give me just a couple minutes, okay? I won't be gone long."

"Please," he whimpered.

Standing, Clara went back into the corridor and kicked off her shoes in the direction of the sitting room. Once she was free of the heeled menaces she went into the kitchen and began pulling a bunch of ingredients from memory out of the cupboards. She put them all in a small bowl and pulled out her wand, swirling the tip above the concoction in a very precise pattern. Everything melted and melded until it was a foul-smelling grey liquid, which she poured into a glass and brought back to Malcolm.

"Here; if the firewhisky didn't kill you, this won't," she said, kneeling down next to him again. His eyes were rimmed in red as he gingerly took the glass and choked the contents down. He handed back the glass with a grimace, nearly looking ready to vomit again.

"What sort of chaser was that…?" he coughed. "I haven't had something like that since I was dared to lick a toad as a lad."

"There is toad sweat in it, so you're not that far off," she replied, flushing the toilet so there was clean water in it. "It's the best anti-firethroat potion I've got without calling an old school mate that actually sat N.E.W.T.s in Potions. Why did you tell me you can't hold your liquor? I would've kept a closer eye on things…"

"I used to, but… not anymore," he admitted. He stared in the toilet bowl, shivering and red-faced, looking as if he'd had a long cry. "Fucked up real bad… I mean, really fucking bad. I was such a cunt then—I had to clean up. Eight? Nine years ago? I don't even know anymore. Try not to dwell on it." He belched, though didn't vomit, in relief. "I'm sorry; should've told you sooner."

"No, it's alright," she assured him. Clara sat down next to Malcolm and held his hand, lacing their fingers together and resting her head on his shoulder. "Since we've started dating, I've only seen you have a glass of wine with dinner; before that it looked like a general ban on alcohol while at work functions and lots of people do that."

"A glass with dinner I can do no problem, since food's there to help me, but straight shit like that…? A wee granny could easily outdrink me."

"You ever… get help? Like, professional help?"

"Did the meetings, but I stopped when I got the job," he admitted. "It'd be my luck that some hack from this paper or that website joins the group and recognizes me and then what? The PM'd have to sack his faithful Director of Communications for being a pisser."

"They wouldn't do that…"

"Yes, they _would_ , and before I could use that breach of trust to fuck them over, I'd be so down in the gutters that I couldn't even touch them."

"No… because I'd strike back," Clara said. "Remember that you're are shagging a _spin-witch_ ; I can literally conjure things to turn him into a sheep-sodomer and paint you as a reformed wonder, the very image of what wonders a man can be if he finds the strength in him to fight his demons."

"You're too kind," he murmured. "I'm just another Scots drunkard, next in line for the vicious, fucking stereotypical, cycle. It's in my blood, Clara. I don't like it, but it's there, and it's a rager. I'm just glad I passed out this time, 'cause I could get pretty mean."

"Meaner than you are at work?"

"Those cunts don't know a Malcolm Tucker Rager and I'm glad for it," he said. He stroked her thumb with his and frowned. "I think I feel good enough to use the Floo Network to get back to the office and I can take a cab from there."

"Like hell you are," she scoffed. Clara let go of Malcolm's hand and stood up, helping him to his feet. "It's Friday and we don't have anywhere to be tomorrow—I'm keeping you for observation."

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he nodded. He then let her undress him, her movements practiced and methodical, and shove him into the tub. She turned on the shower and hosed him down with the cool spray. He then was toweled off and dressed in an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt he'd left there, and after a couple scans via her wand, he was deemed in acceptable condition to enter her bedroom.

It was weird for Malcolm to lay down in Clara's bed while fully-clothed. He watched her undress and put on her nightie and indulgently cuddled into her as she joined him. She propped herself up on her many pillows and held him to her chest, stroking his barely-wet hair while humming.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he wondered, wrapping his arms around his living pillow. "You should ditch me for dead in the middle of a fen or something else equally haunted and Holmsian."

"Not on my life," she replied, shushing him. "Just go to sleep, yeah? You need rest for the potion to work."

And so he slept.


	7. Firewhisky, 2010, Continued

A/N: This chapter takes place immediately after the previous.

* * *

 _Firewhisky, 2010, Continued_

As the night went on, Clara realized that Malcolm'd had more to drink than she thought. It was either that or he was served some of the stronger stuff, because after a couple hours in bed he began to dry-heave again. He was able to keep down some water for a little bit, but even that he vomited up, that along with a little bit of blood. She'd never seen a reaction to firewhisky this strong before, and it made her more vigilant than she'd ever been taking care of someone on the wrong side of the bottle before.

It was roughly fifteen hours after they'd arrived at her house when Malcolm's stomach was finally calm enough to keep down water and a few bites of banana. He was a bloody mess despite it only being mid-morning, though both of them felt it.

"You're too kind to me," he said out of the blue. They were still in bed, with him laying on his stomach towards the edge of the mattress and she sitting up next to him with a book. He let his arm dangle off the side of the bed, tracing a finger against the rim of the bowl set there in case he revisited the banana, and scowled at nothing.

"No such thing," she replied, not even looking up from her book. "I'd be a rather deplorable person if I let my boyfriend get caught off-guard and not help him return to functioning."

"You're missing work…"

"...and I'd rather be here with you, honestly. The Minister understands; trust me when I say that nobody in this house is the one in trouble because I stayed home." She scratched his scalp and kept on reading. "We're fine."

"Still doesn't mean I don't feel like a fucking waste of space."

"You're _not_."

Malcolm made an incoherent noise and continued sulking. "I did not miss this feeling."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Clara wondered.

"Not really."

" _Should_ we talk about it?"

He mulled on that, unsure how to answer.

"We can always save it for later," she offered.

"No, just, there's not much of a story to tell," he said. "I got wound up at work and couldn't take it anymore… what I had to do. Married then—one issue didn't help the other—and before I knew it I was all alone. I was a functioning drunk, yeah, but even the functioning ones run into issues."

"You never told me you were married." Clara closed her book and set it on the nightstand. "Malcolm," she leaned over him to look at his face, "why didn't you tell me that?"

"Not important; hadn't come up. I'd tell you eventually, but why ruin a good thing unnecessarily?" He rolled over and gazed up at her, his blood-shot eyes watery and leaking. "You're the best thing to happen to this sodding cunt in a long-arse time, sweetheart. I'm almost fifty—I don't have _time_ to fuck things up anymore."

"So she divorced you for your drinking?"

"Drinking, things I said, things I _did_ , things I didn't do... but it was both ways, honest. Her and I weren't meant to be."

"Usually people try to figure that out _before_ they get married," she replied. "What changed? Things like that means that someone or something changed."

"I had wanted to do right by her, and we didn't so much as touch below the belt until the wedding night. Living like we do, spending over a week at a time at each other's places, was not something her and I did, and it turned out for the fucking worst." He blinked heavily, letting tears stream down the side of his face silently. "That was years ago now; the Malcolm you've got has sobered up, gotten his shit together, and won't get hitched again unless he _knows_ it's viable."

"From what you can tell, are we viable?" Her soft tone told him there were no wrong answers provided they were honest ones. She stroked his hair and rubbed his chest, gently assuring him she was there.

"I dunno," he admitted. "I adore every moment I'm with you, even if it's purely for work, but I have doubts."

"Mind telling me? Might give me some insight and lead to some answers."

"I'm not going to be useful for much longer; even if we get married first thing on Monday and you're up the duff before Tuesday, if the following week at work is rough enough I'll change into an old man before your eyes."

"Superficial nonsense," she chuckled. "You're halfway to grey anyhow, so why would being fully silver make matters worse?"

"Clara, I've got twenty-one years on you," Malcolm said. He shakily sat up and slid back so that his back was against the headboard. It was cool through his t-shirt, which contrasted with the warm blankets and sheets the rest of him was in. "What we're doing is the fantasy of so many dirty old cunts, some of whom we _work with_ , and I don't want you getting looked at wrong because of it."

"If they look at me wrong, then that's their problem…"

"…but Clara, what'll you do if my drinking decides to catch up to me and I go early? Do you _want_ to be a young widow?"

"Are you trying to tell me this is something casual then?" she asked sharply. "I didn't think this was a thing that could be dropped in an instant."

"No, I—"

"You _what_?"

"…don't deserve a lass like you," he finished, glancing down guiltily. "It's been amazing these past few months, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure if I'm the sort of git you should be saddled with. Just look at me: I can barely take liquor without turning to—"

Clara exhaled heavily in exasperation and grabbed Malcolm's face, jamming her tongue inside his mouth for an aggressive kiss. When they parted he stared at her, wide-eyed and in a state of semi-shock, unable to say a word.

"If you don't think I'm capable of figuring out who I should or shouldn't be with, then you've got another think coming, Malcolm Tucker," she scolded. "Do you want to know how long the oldest witch ever naturally lived until?"

"…uh…"

"…two-hundred-twenty-seven," she continued, not even giving him a chance to think, "and guess what? She was married to a Muggle man, whom she kept alive nearly that entire time. Want to know when she needed to start creating potions to help him stay with her? When he was over a hundred-fifty."

"…a… a fuck-hundred-fifty…?!" he marveled. "No one's lived that long!"

"He did, because he was with _her_ ," Clara said. She locked their gazes and then it was her turn to start crying. "If I'm not worried, what do you need to be worried about?"

"…but I'm still…"

"Malcolm, if I know anything about being in love it's that you can't waste time on what-ifs and hypotheticals." She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. "Do you want to know why I told you 1998 was a bad year?"

"You did…?" Reaching back into his memory, he tried to conjure up the conversation. "Fuck, when you were teaching me about Quidditch. Why's that?"

"That was when the last great wizarding war ended, right on the doorstep of Hogwarts," she said solemnly. "It was so bad that even students took up wands in defense of themselves and the school. My boyfriend and I were two of them."

"Oh…" Malcolm put the pieces together immediately. "That's why you don't talk about the break-up much."

"That's **_why_** I know we don't have a moment to lose, and not because age has anything to do with it," she clarified. "I want a proper one mind you, so I'm not talking about next week, but will you marry me? The church, the cake, the obnoxious relatives getting drunk on our tab… the whole thing; will you?"

"Yes," he nodded. He wrapped an arm around her and drew her in close for a kiss. "Yes, I'll… fuck… fuck yes I'll marry you." Malcolm was about to dive in for another kiss when his stomach lurched from nerves and suddenly he found himself bent over the side of the bed, vomiting into his bowl. Clara rubbed his back and waited for him to finish before righting him again.

"Better?"

"Darling, I don't know what spell you put on me, but I'm at the top of the fucking world," he beamed at her, face splotched with burst veins and regurgitated banana. She wiped his face off with a kerchief and kissed the tip of his nose; _he_ wasn't the one under a spell. Couldn't even cast a simple unlocking charm and he had her hooked.


	8. After the First Date, 2010

A/N: Takes place during a vague time post-Favors and pre-Firewhisky.

* * *

 _After the First Date, 2010_

Malcolm woke up feeling fan- _fucking_ -tastic, and not in the usual sense of how he used the term either. He was tangled up in sheets he couldn't remember for the life of him, his entire body feeling more relaxed than it had in ages, and cuddling into the side of a very naked Clara Oswald, Director of Communications for the Minister of Magic, while he was equally in the buff.

Fuck, it felt good to be on the mend from a wild night again and not one that had _anything_ to do with a work-related cock-up.

"Mmmm… morning," he hummed, kissing the side of her breast. "You up?"

"Yeah." She dragged her fingertips across his shoulder blade and smiled as goosebumps spread across his skin. "How you feeling, Mr. Lone Wolf?"

"Brilliant."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Oh…?"

"…only because you were," he finished.

"Sounds like you've done this before," she chuckled, grin growing wider. Clara kissed Malcolm's short hair, a gesture that he seemed to crave. "Breakfast?"

"Sure," he replied.

They both got up and threw on the nearest clothes they could find—Malcolm his pants and Clara his shirt—before lazily making their way to the kitchen. Having grabbed her wand on the way out of her bedroom, the witch swished the stick around and things began to move on their own as their food was prepared. The two sat down at the table, though Malcolm was fascinated by the work going on.

"Substitutiary cuntamotion, it's like that bleeding kids' film," he marveled.

"Mum always wondered if that movie was some sort of mysterious satire on the wizarding world and their treatment of Squibs," she commented. She turned her mobile on—left sitting on the table after dinner and before the extra-curriculars—and began scrolling through her messages. "Cooking is a lot like a spell whether you use your own hands or a wand: only the more talented people can do it."

"You ever make something by hand?"

"When I feel like it, but right now I feel like being here with you," she said. He could feel her toes brush up against his and she giggled. "Hope you like scrambled eggs."

"If your cooking's anything like how you fuck, then I'll take anything you can whip up," he smirked. Malcolm reached across the table and grabbed his own mobile. "Looks like nothing went in the shitter while we were conked out; that's at least a good thing."

"At least in the Muggle sphere of things it is," she grumbled. "I've got a bloody mess when I get in today—two departmental secretaries got into a drunken duel last night and nearly blew up one of the Orkneys."

"…wouldn't that also fall under my jurisdiction?"

"No; a couple of the uninhabited ones are actually populated by wizards. It's the same with some of the smaller Shetlands and Hebrides…and a decent portion of the Isle of Man, to be honest." Clara placed her mobile down and rubbed her face with both hands as plates of food floated over and tidily landed in front of them. "I doubt we'll need to involve you, but I'll ring if we do."

"Tuck in—you'll need your strength," he said. Malcolm picked up his fork and began to eat, hoping his girlfriend would follow suit. She did, and he felt a bit better. "If you need some back-up, you know how to reach me while at the office."

"Yeah."

They ate in silence, the only sounds between them being the ones involved with eating. As they finished, the dishes began to wash themselves, and the pair began to ready for the day. Malcolm unbuttoned his shirt off Clara once they got to her bedroom and slipped it off her shoulders. He kissed her shoulder and traveled along to her neck, to her jaw, and finally her lips. Once his hands found her hips she pushed him away, a reluctant frown on her face.

"Not now, Malcolm. I have to get to work."

"They'll survive fifteen minutes without you."

"I _can't_."

She gently took his hands off her and went into the shower. He put his shirt and trousers back on and glanced around the room… Clara's room. All he knew was that they were in her house, which was in the middle of a wood, and that it was called _Raven's Rook_. It was an interesting name for an interesting house—her mother's family house, apparently—and there hadn't been much time to examine it the previous evening. They'd come back for coffee and relaxing, ending up skipping both and going straight to bed, where he lost count how many times he pleasured her after spending his one guaranteed shot in an infuriating misfire. He was able to gather up a second round by the end of the night and _that_ was the reason why his body had none of the stress and tension he'd woken up with the morning before. Now his lady-love was off to mop up some cunts' messes while he had nothing to do other than stand there awkwardly.

Looking around, Malcolm saw the photos sitting on Clara's desk. He picked one up and watched as the woman and girl in the frame smiled and hugged one another, smiling for the camera. The girl was Clara, he could tell, meaning the woman must have been her mother. Wizard photos and paintings always made him a wee bit nervous, which was why he set it down and picked up another one, this one a Muggle portrait of the Oswald family. Seeing a small Clara with both her parents showed him how much she looked like them both. She couldn't have been more than five—it seemed like the department store photos that he remembered taking when he was a lad.

"That was before we found out I was a witch," Clara explained, appearing at Malcolm's side. She was in her bathrobe, hair already dried, and looked at the photo fondly. "Mum and Dad didn't let me know about magic until I accidentally made a football explode simply by kicking it. Gran and Granddad Ravenwood were gone by then, so Mum decided to use this house as a summer home where I could be myself until I could go to Hogwarts."

"Where is here, other than home?" he wondered, placing the frame back down.

"The Forest of Bowland, Lancashire." She went to her wardrobe and procured her clothes for the day. "There's all sorts of wards and charms around it to make sure that no Muggles get in without permission."

"…so then I have permission?"

"You, Dad, Gran, a couple old friends I've made here and there… the list is rather short."

Malcolm thought for a moment, watching Clara disrobe and start putting her clothes on. Knickers, bra, leggings, skirt, shirt; she was at her jacket when he finally came up with an idea.

"Instead of dropping me off at work, think I can stay here?" he asked. She glanced over at him, curious.

"Why's that?" She paused putting on makeup and her eyes then narrowed with suspicion. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing much—a bit of fresh air might do me some good, what with me being in London all the fucking time and all."

"…alright," she agreed. "I'll be back home at six and then we can get some dinner."

"Sounds marvelous," he grinned.

Clara finished the last bit of her makeup and pecked Malcolm's lips before Apparating to work. She hadn't been gone more than two minutes before her beau was back in the kitchen, grabbing his mobile off the table while watching the dishes dry themselves.

"Cuntface; where's the nearest grocer?"

* * *

Things had been _awful_ for Clara that day. The duel had quickly devolved into a brawl, which simmered into a blood feud by the time the authorities could intervene, but at least she kept it out of Muggle knowledge and lessened the impact in the wizarding press. It had involved plenty of threatening and less-than-savory tactics, yet the job still was done and that was what counted. She nearly didn't have the energy and effort to make it back home, deciding to take the Floo Network for good measure. It was very good that the couch was right there, as she plopped right down on it and nearly fell asleep.

Willing herself to get up, Clara sniffed at the air in wonder. Garlic? Why did she smell garlic? She wandered into the kitchen to find Malcolm in front of the stovetop, searing some chicken in a pan. Her kitchenware was floating about around him, attempting to make sense of the stranger in their domain.

"Malcolm…?"

"Oh good, you're back," he said once he noticed her presence. A wooden spoon tried to smack his hand away from the pan handle, but he fought it off. "Thought I'd have dinner ready when you came home."

"That's… thank you," she breathed, allowing her shoulders to droop. She sat at the table, with him following. The food served itself and floated over to them as it had at breakfast, except this time it was a lovely chicken dish with lentils and rice.

"Hope you like it," he grinned before digging in.

"Where'd you get the lentils?" she asked.

"Town," he replied. "I had to leave the premises, but once the GPS on my mobile could kick in, I was golden."

Clara took a bite and chuckled lowly. It was delicious.


	9. Meetings and Plans, 2010-2011

A/N: The following is a cobbling of a couple different scenes, all centered around the lead-up to the Tucker-Oswald wedding, though not the wedding itself.

* * *

 _Christmas, 2010_

"I still don't know why you're so worried," Clara said as they rode up to Blackpool. Malcolm was driving, as he was the one with an actual car, and it was all his fiancée could do to keep him from turning around and going back to London.

"He's just not going to like me, I can feel it," he said. "I'm younger than him, but still close enough in age to where we could have been in the same sodding school at the same time—it won't fucking sit right with him."

"Does our age gap sit right with _you_?"

"Shagging the woman I love shouldn't depend on that; we both got past it a while ago now."

"Then you'll be _fine_ ," she insisted. "The only one you're going to have to worry about is Linda, and it doesn't matter _who_ I bring home because Linda will _never_ be impressed."

They spent the rest of the ride making small-talk and discussing who precisely it was they wanted in the wedding and where. Dave Oswald lived in a modest brick house in a neighborhood of other modest brick houses, each one definitely plain and ordinary and not anywhere near where one would think witches used to live. They pulled into the drive and unloaded the car, Clara getting the gifts from the back seat and Malcolm the suitcases from the boot, before walking up to the front door. Dave answered it, an uneasy grin on his face.

"Clara, there you are!" he beamed as he let his visitors in the house. Clara placed the presents on a table in the hallway before hugging her father, the both of them happy to see one another.

"It's so good to see you again, Dad!" she sighed. She then pulled back and glanced around, as if looking for someone else. "Where's Gran?"

"She had Linda take her shopping," Dave explained. "She wanted me to be able to meet the newest member of the family without wandering ears." He then turned towards the man who was offering to take off his daughter's coat and held out his hand nervously. "You must be Malcolm; I'm Dave."

"It's a pleasure, Dave," Malcolm replied, shaking the man's hand. "I'm going to have to thank your mam when she comes back; I hear Linda's not very agreeable when it comes to things Clara."

"The only real problem I have with her, but they have a general truce for my sake," Dave said. Once Clara and Malcolm's coats were off he led them back into the kitchen, where he had them sit down at the breakfast bar. "You know, I think I've still got a bottle of wine hanging about if you're interested."

"Not until dinner, Dad," Clara replied quickly. "Malcolm's constitution isn't really agreeable unless it's with food."

"A lightweight? I can respect that," Dave nodded. "One of my roommates in uni was one—at least you admit it." He got them all water instead and then stood there awkwardly, not entirely sure where to go from there. "So… Clara says you met at work, yeah?"

"We did, a while ago now," Malcolm confirmed. "It's only this year that we started dating, but we already knew one another pretty well before that. I'm very fond of Clara, and every moment I spend with her it's like I'm over the goddamned moon." He blushed uncomfortably into his glass; this was going to be a long visit.

"Well, what do _you_ do then?" Dave wondered. "Clara explained to me recently what all goes on in the Ministry of Magic, but I'm afraid I still can't make heads or tails of it."

"I actually work for the PM," Malcolm said. He watched uncomfortably as Dave put down his water, seeing the gears work in the other man's eyes. "I'm Malcolm Tucker, and I'm Director of Communications over there in Number 10… the Muggle version of what your daughter does."

"Wait… you're a Muggle…?"

"Yeah…?"

Dave exhaled heavily in relief, coming around the bar to hug Malcolm enthusiastically. "You don't know how happy this makes me! I knew no matter who my baby girl ended up with I was going to have to be accepting of, but… another Muggle!"

"Our Clara knows how to pick 'em," Malcolm laughed. No wonder Clara wasn't worried in the slightest about her fiancée meeting her father. "Man, this is a fucking load off my shoulders—meeting a lass's family ain't an easy task, you know?"

"No kidding; hey, don't mention anything about magic in front of my wife, alright? She doesn't know anything—thinks Clara works PR for some holistic medicine firm."

Malcolm's eyes went wide and he snorted loudly. "Wait, really? Your wife doesn't know?"

"His wife doesn't know _what_?" a new voice asked sourly. Linda was at the back door, some bags in her hands that she set down on the table, a sour look upon her face.

"Oh, just that you've got Whitehall's formerly most eligible bachelor sitting in your kitchen," Malcolm replied suavely. He saw disapproval wash over his future mother-in-law as she gave him a good look-over. Yeah, he knew she couldn't say he looked like a fucking slob, but he could tell that his greying hair and crow's feet around his eyes weren't winning him any points.

"Charmed," Linda replied before walking out. She could be heard going up the stairs by the time Clara's gran came shuffling in the back door, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her granddaughter.

"Clara! Congratulations!" she cried, going over and hugging her. She then turned towards Malcolm and brought him into an embrace as well. "Welcome to the family, dear. Oh, you look so _normal_ , bless you."

"That's because I'm a Muggle… erm…"

"Gran—just call me Gran," she finished. "Now tell me: what are your plans so far for the wedding?"

* * *

 _March 2011_

He was paraded around as a variety of relatives were shoved in front of him and every introduction became a blur after a while. At least he could tell who Oswin was, as she was the bride who looked so much like her cousin. Clara and Oswin's Granddads Oswald had been brothers, which made the entire party sans Malcolm's fiancée thankfully Muggle.

"I'm glad you and Clara met," the new Mr. Oswald said as the two stood off to the side, allowing everyone else to socialize without them. Actually, he was still Smith— _Dr. Johnathan Smith_ at that—but Oswin kept her surname as she was hitched to the bow-tied lad with floppy hair and impossibly gangly limbs. He wasn't bad to talk with, considering he thankfully had a brain attached to that medical degree, which was a balm in the otherwise filled-to-the-brim hall of cunts. "She's not had the best of luck, from what I hear."

"We all do at some point in our lives," Malcolm nodded. He took a sip of his water and watched Clara as she and Oswin were talking with some of their friends. "One thing I do know is that we've got ourselves a wonderful pair of women on our hands. Clara and I met at work—how'd you meet Oswin?"

"She was my best friend's neighbor in uni," the younger man said. "They kept in touch and it took a few years, but we ended up hitting it off. Oswald women are screaming geniuses, you know. Once they've got you, you're stuck." The look on his face as he glanced over at his new wife made it very clear to Malcolm that he was not the least bit upset about the "stuck" part. It was then that the Best Lady's husband came up to them, his face stuck in a frown.

"If I get asked one more time when Amy and I are having kids I'm going to punch someone," he grumbled. Malcolm didn't say anything, already having been given the story about the Williams-Ponds' lack of ability, though not lack of trying. They were a good pair, as he very quickly learned earlier in the day as Amy, a fellow Scot, won an argument with the bride's aunt over whether or not it was appropriate to wear her skirt that high at a wedding.

"Hey, that's why you're Aunt Amy and Uncle Rory, and whenever you want to borrow our future little ones, you're more than welcome," Johnathan said, giving his friend a one-armed hug.

"I don't know if Oswin will like you offering to give away the kids before they even exist," Malcolm mentioned. Rory glanced over at him, unimpressed.

"Amy is all I need, and very little will change that," he said. "Just watch out for the Oswalds—they're flirts."

"As long as Clara's extramarital flirting involves needing to get shit done at work, I don't fucking mind," Malcolm chuckled. Fuck, _he_ needed to flirt sometimes in order to make particularly pesky people actually do what they had to, so he wasn't about to judge Clara for doing the exact same.

"You must feel pretty secure then," Rory noted. He then moved in closer to the other two, dropping his voice in concern. "Hey, this probably isn't the time, but I think we should know: have you told your family about some of the more unusual stuff?"

"Naw, not yet; there isn't many of us, so I figure I can break the news over some family dinner or something. Can't be when Her Lindaship's there—she'd think I'm off my fucking rocker, which I guess would keep the bitch away, but the only ones on my side that would know would be Mam, my sister, and her kid. The fewer the better."

"You're lucky," Johnathan added, patting Malcolm's back. "Just let us know when we need to show up for stuff and we'll be there. Won't be as fast as Clara's used to at work, but you're our friend now too and we can't ignore that."

"Thanks," Malcolm said, truly meaning it. The word felt good to say, knowing the two were genuinely on his side. Few ever were that and it was great to know it for sure.

* * *

 _June 2011_

"What the fucking hell, you randy-arse cunt?!" Jamie growled. "What sort of bloke throws a _dry_ stag night?! Just because you're the one that can't guzzle it down doesn't mean that the rest of us can't knock back a couple!"

"I'm telling ya: _no booze_ , ya wee shite," Malcolm fired back. They were in his office, Jamie having come over from his post in the newsroom to go over some last-minute details in private. Sam came in with some tea and biscuits for them both, giving her boss the opportunity to call in for reinforcements. "Sammy, you ever been to a dry hen night?"

"Yeah, why?" she wondered, trying to play the fool. It was always a miracle the entire building never heard the two ranting and raving about this thing or that, even _with_ the muffling charm she put on the office.

"Malc's telling me I got to throw him a dry stag! It's not like no one there'll be up the duff or anything…"

"…but everyone will be on-call, if I heard the guest list correctly," she threw at him. "You're going to have a doctor, a nurse, some government officials…"

"Alright, alright, I get'cha Sammy," Jamie scowled, shoving a biscuit in his mouth. "Hey, what's the news on your lad? Figured out yet if he's a keeper or a cunt?"

"Leaning towards the former," she laughed. "Be careful, or I might spread the rumor that the Crossest Man in Scotland is actually a giant softie."

"As long as it's not in bed then we're good," he snarked. Sam rolled her eyes and left the two men alone again, returning to her work. "Fine; I'll bring a flask."

" _No_ , Jamie."

"You respect my right to get shit-faced every other time! What makes this different?!"

"It just _is_ , yeah? Fuck off." Malcolm went back to tapping out a speech on his computer, attempting to ignore his travel-sized Best Man's incessant bitching. If he was going to get to watch Clara walk towards him down the aisle _without_ all of government knowing, then it was would be a legitimate miracle.


	10. Not Qualified for this, 2007

A/N: The following takes place early July 2007, so Clara is 25 and Malcolm is forty-six; ended up being much longer than I expected even though all I wanted was the little domestic scene at the end.

* * *

Malcolm stared at the hastily-written address in his hand and double-checked it with the house in front of him. When his magical counterpart had called him earlier, he knew things were not going well. For one, she had called him mobile to mobile, which meant she wasn't in the office, and two… well… he rarely heard her sounding _this_ upset. He walked up to the door of the council house and knocked, not surprised that a young boy answered.

"Hey, you Milo?" he wondered. The boy's eyes went wide and he flung himself at Malcolm, hugging him around the middle.

"You and the ladies are going to take me, right?"

"Hold on lad—we have to get permission from your parents first," he replied. "Now what seems to be the problem that the ladies haven't been able to solve?"

There was some incoherent shouting coming from inside the house, which led Malcolm to gently push the boy away before he entered. Clara was standing in the sitting room, glaring hard at the pair who must have been the boy's parents, flanked a woman he knew as the Deputy Headmistress of the magic school up in Scotland. The teacher seemed considerably less confident in her ability to stand up to the Muggles as Clara, which likely provoked calling him in for backup.

"Bloody— _another one_?!" the mother snapped soon as she saw her newest guest. "Why don't all the rest of you freaks come on down and have a convention?"

"Ma'am, this is my associate Malcolm Tucker, and he is, in fact, a Muggle like you and your husband," Clara explained. "He is going to _assure you_ that we're not here to kidnap your son."

"…and what do _you_ do? Push trick pencils?" the father snarked.

"I am Director of Communications for the Prime Minister; it's a good thing that it's a slow day down at Number 10, or I'd be livid standing here," Malcolm said. He reached into his jacket and presented a business card, which neither parent took. Pocketing it again, he cleared his throat and continued. "Trust me when I say I had never imagined that a wizarding community would be a thing, but I can assure you that knowing they exist makes the world much easier to comprehend."

"You aren't the first set of crazies that have walked into my house and wanted to make off with my boy," the mother said. "He was small last time it happened and I didn't like the look about them… just how I don't like the look of any of you."

"I'm normal, like you," Malcolm reiterated. "I take the fucking Tube and make my meals by hand… I'm pretty sure you can listen to me."

"Piss off—I'm not sending Milo to some wort-academy at the suggestion of complete and total _strangers_."

"Now Ma'am, while I understand the sentiment, you don't necessarily have to send Milo to Hogwarts," the deputy headmistress said from behind the safety of her friend. "You have variety of options we're more than happy to—"

" _No_ , and that's _final_ ," the mother declared.

While Clara continued arguing with the mother (and it was mainly the mother), Malcolm glanced about the room in an attempt to keep his temper down and not-focused on the banshee. It wasn't squalor, but it wasn't exactly well-kept either. Actually, it reminded him of Jamie's flat around the time they first met—a couple of bachelors just starting out at the same news rag. It brought back fond memories, though those were decidedly killed when he realized the boy was not in the room.

"Sorry, but can I use the loo? Morning coffee hit me at the wrong time," he lied.

"Past the stairs," the mother snarled, slipping it into whatever she was saying to Clara seamlessly. Malcolm walked out, closing the door to the room behind him, and quietly snuck up the staircase. He found the boy sitting on the bed in what was presumably his room, sniffling as he palmed his eyes.

"Hey," Malcolm said, standing in the doorway. The boy gasped and looked his way, relaxing only slightly when he saw who it was. "Can I come in?" A nod of permission and he did, sitting down on the mattress next to the kid. "So you can do magic, yeah?"

"Uh-huh," the boy muttered. "Sometimes, if I concentrate hard, I can make things float. Mum says it's because I'm possessed."

"I would've thought that too a few years ago, so I can't blame her, even if she is a fucking earful," Malcolm scoffed. He wasn't going to watch his language, not with the kid, not when he was using the choicest of words be his age. "What does she plan on doing with you?"

"Send me to the neighborhood school, I guess," Milo shrugged. He pulled his knees up and hugged them, toes curled over the side of the mattress. "I thought Professor Longbottom and Miss Oswald were case workers at first."

While it should have surprised him, it didn't. "Case workers? Have you had some come to the house before?"

"A couple times, but Mum and Dad were always let off with warnings. Mostly it's because of how the front garden looked, or because we forgot to do laundry, and things like that. One of the teachers at my school kept calling for them."

"…and _should_ they have been called?"

"I… I don't think so," the boy said. "I'd still rather live with Dad."

"I thought your da was downstairs…"

"He's my step-dad—my _real_ dad lives in a flat a ways away with his girlfriend. I'd have to share a room with her brother, but at least there wouldn't be so much fighting."

"Aye, I see," Malcolm chuckled. "Sometimes people get shouty parents and there's nothing you can do about it. They don't hit ya or call ya names, yeah?"

"Yeah…?"

"Then chances are that they're only trying their best," he assured. The words were as much for himself as they were for the young boy. "Parents aren't always good at showing how they care—trust me." He patted Milo's back right before he heard footsteps storm up the stairs. The gait undeniable, Malcolm stood and watched for Clara to make her way into the room.

"Milo," she said, "pack your things; we're leaving." The boy's eyes lit up.

"Does that mean Mum and Dad gave permission?!"

"…in a way. Now come on." She helped him take his overnight bag out from underneath his bed and magicked it so that he could fit more in there than normally possible. While Milo was packing, Malcolm leaned down and murmured in Clara's ear.

"They didn't agree, did they?"

"I had to use extreme measures and figure out why the mum was so adamant in keeping him here instead of allowing him to go off to a _state-run_ boarding school. Apparently she thinks he's possessed."

"Yeah, that's what he was saying."

Clara motioned for Malcolm to follow her and they stepped aside, right outside the boy's bedroom. "She was going to exorcise him herself. Now I just committed a _major_ crime for the best interests of Milo in there and I am not going to repeat what I saw. Hannah is working on the Memory Charms for them as we speak."

"… ** _fuck_** , Clara, so we **_are_** kidnapping him?!"

"They didn't listen to Hannah, an instructor, me, a Muggle-born member of government, and you, a high-ranking Muggle member of the Muggle government, whom that woman down there didn't even pay any attention to—there was no way they were going to budge, and considering they think he's possessed, they won't home-school him."

"So now I've been drafted into Wizarding Social Services?!"

"No, but we did have to act for them, since the actual group is all engaged at the moment," she stated. "Listen, Malcolm: what we're doing is for this kid's own good."

"Where will he go though?"

"There's a children's home in Islington—Grimmauld Place—where he can go as soon as there's a spot open. Until then…"

"…he'll stay with me, a Muggle that actually knows what the fuck is going on," he said. Her eyes went wide as the words came out of his mouth. "Where else would he go? The Ministry doesn't have bunks hidden away in all those fucking pigeonholes, do they?" When she could not give an immediate answer, he nodded resolutely. "Be a dear and Apparate us, will ya? I don't want the neighbors around here seeing."

"Don't pretend you're such a bloody martyr."

"Don't pretend you're actually qualified to do this sort of shit."

"Like you are?"

"Considering I've seen it happen before… yeah." He went back into the room and saw Milo was done packing, sitting down on his bed. "Alright, ready? Miss Oswald and I were talking, and you're gonna stay with me until we can get you put somewhere else."

"Somewhere else…?" the boy wondered. "You mean, I'm not going to school?"

"Not directly," Clara said. She went to the boy and knelt in front of him, looking up kindly. "There's a nice place for kids who can't go home during the summer months. Do you want to go?"

"I won't come back…?"

"That's up to you; we can make it so that you can come home, or we can make it so that you never have to again. For now though, we have to ensure you go to Hogwarts, because otherwise your magic will grow out of control and accidentally hurt someone."

"What about my dad?" the boy asked. "Why can't I stay with him?"

"Because we have to deal with the non-magic side of government before he can take you," Clara explained. "We thought we would only have to explain calmly to your mum and stepdad what was going on, but obviously it's much worse than that." She paused and Malcolm could see the wheels turning rapidly in her brain. "I might be able to get you with your dad before the summer holiday is out."

"Thank you," the boy said. The Hogwarts teacher then came rushing up the stairs, attempting to find them.

"I've got the Memory Charms in place so that they think we were some public school faculty offering Milo a scholarship, which they took. It involved going back to when he first started showing magical abilities, but it's done."

"Good—Hannah, take Milo back to my office, while I get Malcolm," Clara replied. "We don't have any time to lose." She grabbed Malcolm's arm and suddenly they were off.

…and that was how Malcolm Tucker found himself playing host to a pint-sized wizard.

* * *

The following day, Malcolm woke up to the ring of his mobile cutting through the peaceful birdsong. There was a minor cock-up in DoSAC, which he was able to take care of while getting dressed, and everything functioned properly again while he shuffled into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. Milo was sitting at the table, munching cereal happily as he looked at the back of the box—one of the couple things they picked up on the way back from Clara's office. Story was to the neighbors he was a coworker's kid, staying over because said coworker had an emergency flight to take over to America, and staying with him was better than being completely alone. He'd have his niece over on occasion when she was younger, so kids in his house was thankfully not an odd thing.

"Sleep alright?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, thanks," the boy grinned. "That bed's really comfy."

"It hasn't been used as often as your old one, is all," Malcolm shrugged. The kid had been sleeping on a plain mattress, and he actually had been genuinely worried that the pillowtop he had in the guest room would be too much for him. Good to know it was the total opposite. "Tell me: what do you normally do for fun? It's Saturday and I might be able to do something before getting dragged off by the old ball and chain."

"I usually read, or watch telly; I don't make a lot of noise because Mum needs her quiet."

"I don't need quiet." He watched as the boy became pensive, only for a twin pair of cracking noises disrupted them. Clara and Sam were standing in the sitting room, both looking incredibly haggard.

"Okay, good news and bad news," the former said as she walked into the kitchen. "Good news is that we can transfer Milo's guardianship over to his father, who is more than willing to take him if it helps his son."

"…and the bad news?" Malcolm asked, not having nearly enough coffee in his system for this.

"We won't be able to get the transfer over legally ratified until Monday," Sam finished. "We can conjure up a temporary foster parent license for you no problem, but it's the more involved stuff that we need to have the Muggles in-charge on the clock for."

"At least that's not terrible news," he said. Malcolm was now gratefully sipping coffee, waking up and getting into gear. "You made it sound like the world was fucking ending."

"Yeah; I like it here. Mister Tucker is nice," Milo added.

"Now that's a new one," Sam laughed. Her mobile buzzed and she looked at it, rolling her eyes in the process. "Got to go; they're wondering where I am at the office."

"Go, go," Malcolm insisted. With that, Sam vanished, leaving her boss with Clara. "Really, the lad isn't any trouble."

"I'm glad, though ugh…" Clara trailed off as she noticed how wild Milo's hair was. She put the papers that were in her hands—Malcolm's license, the papers that would transfer permanent custody—and began messing with the boy's sticky-uppy mane.

"For fuck's sake, Clara; the kid just woke up. Leave him alone," Malcolm scowled. He sat down at the table and began skimming the papers. "Why don't you just adopt him if you want to be his mam?"

"I don't _want_ to be his mum—I want him to be presentable," she fired back, combing the kid's hair with her fingers. "I'll be one, someday, but not today."

"Try telling that to Milo's scalp."

"You're an arse." The kid snickered and she jokingly nudged him. "Watch yourself, or you might get on Miss Oswald's bad side."

"She's all bark unless you cock up, kid; trust me," Malcolm advised. Clara finished with Milo's hair, pressed a motherly kiss in it, and smacked the back of Malcolm's head while he was mid-sip. He choked on his coffee, cussing as it spilled down his front.


	11. The Skiver, 2009

A/N: The following takes place in 2009.

* * *

"Fuck. You," Malcolm snarled. He was standing in front of the front desk of the Auror Office, having just been told by the scrawny twerp behind the dark-polished wood that he was not allowed in. "I have a meeting with the Head of this office in fifteen minutes and I'd like to actually be _on-time_."

"Sorry Mister Tucker—we don't have anything listed in here saying that you're scheduled for today, or any other day," the secretary-twit said, flipping through the department diary. "Are you _sure_ you filed correctly?"

"I stuck my fucking hand out the window, had an owl shat on my rug, and it took off with my request; of course I made sure to file correctly. This would be so much more _reliable_ if you arseholes decided to join us Muggles in the 21st Century, but apparently, you have a fucking _aesthetic_ to maintain."

"Now you sound like my sister's husband," the secretary said in a bored tone. "I'm Muggle-born, so I can understand the frustration."

"Well, you're obviously not understanding enough," Malcolm hissed. He backed away and counted to ten, running a hand through his hair while he attempted to cool off. "Listen: I didn't come down here because I wanted to take a break—Head of Office Potter and I have an appointment to go over the shit that went down in Shoreditch last week, because _I'm_ getting pressure from the Muggle press and no one will tell me anything! How much more do I have to spell it out?!"

"You don't have an appointment."

One thing Malcolm did have to give the lad was that he had guts, much more so than most twenty-somethings he had the distinct pleasure of harassing while at work. Everything he said was resolute and his demeanor unflappable… it would have been something the older man admired had it not been for the fact it was keeping him from doing his own job.

"You will see me again," he sneered. Malcolm spun around to walk out the door, except he turned around and grabbed a handful of candy from the dish on the desk, _then_ stormed out with all the fury of Hellfire behind him.

A Wonkavator ride later and the Muggle was slamming his visitor's badge on the security desk, not even pausing as he grumbled a thanks before he went up and out of the Ministry of Magic. When he left the alley the visitor's entrance was situated in, he whipped out his mobile and rung up Clara.

" _You_ _ **do**_ _realize I'm on holiday, yeah?_ " she answered.

"That little Creevey poof won't let me in to see Potter," he snapped. "What am I supposed to do?! I set up the appointment properly and everything! Now he won't even give me the fucking release of scaring him shitless."

" _I remember Dennis from school—we both saw some shit and don't scare easy these days_ ," she said.

"Yeah, well, make sure that next time you take what I genuinely believe is a well-deserved break, that you make sure the wee cunts in your building promise to take me seriously," Malcolm scowled. He politely nodded at the guard who let him into Number 10 and stalked up to his office. "It's a rough thing, Oswald, and I can't wait for the fuckers to start lubing up."

" _Can I please get back to playing cribbage with Gran? If I don't keep my focus I could get skunked_."

"Go play your wrinkled old bat game—talk to you later." He hung up and walked into his office, seeing his PA typing away at her computer. "Hey Sammy; anything try to fuck us over while I was gone?"

"No," she said, raising her brow. "I thought you'd be back later than this."

"Can't get fuckall done without a wand up my arse and fairy dust in my piss," he growled. "The kid they have guarding that place can't be ruffled."

"Creevey is a casualty—he's a highly-trained Auror, but there's a reason why he's sitting at the desk and not out in the field hunting down criminals," she explained. "Mates tried fixing us up once; didn't work out too well."

"Sam, sometimes I think that you and Clara are the only sane ones out of your lot, and I really wish I didn't," Malcolm admitted. He then went into his office, turning his computer back on in order to get a head-start on some of the things he was supposed to do later that afternoon.

Taking a candy out of his pocket, he broke it in half with his teeth, gnawing on the chewy sweet idly. By the time he popped the other side in his mouth, he had gotten an entire speech written and was beginning work on another one. It was short-lived, however, as he began to feel dizzy and light-headed.

"Fuck… must've not had a big enough satsuma earlier," he muttered. Malcolm closed his eyes and shook his head, opening them to see that there was blood dripping down the front of his shirt and tie. " ** _Fuck!_** **_Sammy!_** "

Sam came rushing in, her eyes going wide when she saw the scene. She went to his side and immediately took out her wand to fix her employer's nose. When it didn't stop, she saw the candy wrapper on the desk and huffed in irritation.

"Do you have more of these?" she asked, holding up the paper. Malcolm took the handful out of his pocket and she nabbed one, opening it up and breaking it in half. "Eat this." He did and the bleeding immediately stopped. "Now who gave you the candies?"

"Nabbed 'em from Creevey's desk," he said, dabbing at his nose with a kerchief. "This some torture device they use to bleed dissenters to death so the suits don't have to deal with them?"

"No; it's a Nosebleed Nougat—a prank candy used mostly to get out of classes," she said, almost chuckling. A couple swishes of her wand and his shirt and tie were clean again. "You ate the grape-flavored side first, didn't you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You eat the orange first, _then_ the grape. It only works in that order." Sam gave Malcolm's shoulder a pat before walking back to her end of the office. "If I hear you passing those on to cunt-ministers I'm going to have to perform more Memory Charms than should be in my job description."

"Just remind me in the future to not fuck with Creevey and we'll call it even," he said. He dumped the remaining candies in the wastebasket under his desk and continued working, only for his mobile to buzz a short while later—a text, from Clara.

' _heard you fell for a skiver. that's actually kind of funny_.'

He tapped out a ' _fuck you_ ' and waited for the response.

' _got some that make people faint. you in?_ '

He grinned at the message—there were going to be some MPs that would have to watch their backs. This sort of power was not to be used wantonly, but he didn't care. Maybe if he snuck them in people's candies enough, he'd train them to faint at the sight of him like Pavlov's fucking dogs.

' _in_ '


	12. The Disgruntled Mum, Early 2011

A/N: The following takes place early 2011.

* * *

Mrs. Blackwood, Malcolm had decided, was one of the most infuriating people he was probably going deal with that month, possibly even that quarter. He wasn't entirely sure _how_ she gained access to his office, let alone Number 10, but there she was, standing there with all the spite and fury only possessed by the mother of a Muggle-born wizard.

"If you know what's good for you, and I'm sure you do Mr. Tucker, you are going to release something to the press about how that supposed _school_ they herd magical children to is _dangerous_! Ghosts of students! Actual students who died during their school years! Dangerous creatures right on the grounds! Learning spells that could go so awry that they could _kill_!"

"It's no different there than at any other boarding school," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Your child was born magical, and because of that they have to know about things that will gravitate to them _because_ of their abilities, the good and the bad. That is one of the safest places in all of the Wizarding Isles, or so I'm told." It was all he could do to not cuss her out for being a twat.

"I was told that as well, but it doesn't seem to be the case," she frowned. "I _will_ go to the papers about this if something isn't done within the week."

"…and likely be laughed out," he added. "Wizards try to stay out of our business and we try to stay out of theirs. Obviously there's overlap, but if you insist on breaking the Statute of Secrecy, then there will be more trouble than you can imagine."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No—only telling you the truth."

"Arrogant Scotsman," she hissed. "Just you wait." Mrs. Blackwood then stormed out, leaving the media man stumped for once.

"What the actual fuck was that…?" he asked as Sam came into the room with his tea. She shrugged at him, just as clueless.

"Hogwarts is probably the best wizarding institution in Western Europe, and if not then at least one of the top three," she said. "I get the feeling her son befriended one of the newer ghosts and it doesn't sit well with her."

"Poor kid could have choked on a biscuit when no one else was around for all she knows," he growled. He knew about the last Great Wizarding War in the UK, the one that ended with scores of deaths on Hogwarts's grounds, but he also knew that it was an incident over ten—nearly fifteen—years gone, with the last militant factions in-hiding and nowhere near stupid enough to come near the school. "There _are_ other magic schools, aren't there?"

"Oh, plenty, but Hogwarts is the only state school in the nation, as well as the oldest and most prestigious," Sam explained. "If a child gets accepted and ends up going elsewhere, it's because their parents are nutters or they had to move and wanted to keep the kid closer. I knew a student at Hogwarts who was there because his father was an international ambassador and traveled all over Europe, otherwise he would have gone to school in America."

"Well, let's hope that this parent is simply a fucking tin of cashews and the whole thing dies off on its own," Malcolm said. He raised his cuppa in toast to Sam, who giggled through a bow and returned to her section of the office. Time to get back to the grind.

* * *

Later that night, Malcolm was laying on his couch, Clara curled up atop of him. Wedding-planning shit was spread all over his coffee table, with color swatches and fabrics and comparative pricing on all sorts of shit and even cake designs. They were taking a break, since both were beginning to see cross-eyed with all the information they had in front of them that _wasn't_ involved with keeping the nation in somewhat working order.

"I still don't know why you don't just _plan_ things and tell me when and where I've got to show up," he murmured in her ear. "That's what a groom's supposed to do, yeah?"

"In most couples, but we aren't _most couples_ ," she replied. "We're down a couple main components, plus the whole Statute thing…"

"Aw, fuck… that's right…" he rumbled.

"What's wrong?"

"I had some harpy in my office today complaining about safety regulations over at Hogwarts and how she's gonna go to the fucking papers with the story and shatter the Statute," he said. Clara blinked and propped herself up so she could look him in the eyes.

"What safety regulations?" she wondered.

"I guess Junior wrote her and was dumb enough to mention how some of the castle ghosts used to be child soldiers," Malcolm scowled. He watched his fiancée's face sour as she sank back down to his chest.

"So she's planning on ruining her son's life because he was born with dangerous abilities that she can't control on her own? It's a pity."

"I'm not fond of the place either, but it's there or sending the kids off to America from how Sam put it earlier. I'll be damned if our kids end up magic and we send them to that tight-arse French school. From the way that bitch-witch was talking last month, it was as if the place was the single source of any good magic on the Continent."

"Heaven forbid Madame Lefebvre discovers that they have French-language courses up in Switzerland, or she might have a stroke," Clara chuckled weakly. The woman in-question was a foreign advisor to Minister Shacklebolt at the moment and her presence was grinding on people more and more as time went on. She then had an idea. "Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"How about if I plan on giving this woman a tour of Hogwarts, to show her that it's safe there?" she offered. "You can come along too, since you're a Muggle and she knows you have power."

"That could work," he agreed. "I don't know if it'll change my mind, but it could change hers, or at least shut her up. Should I have Sam schedule it?"

"No… let me. Have Sam forward me this woman's information, because I'm sure you've got it, and I can inform the Deputy Headmistress of our situation."

"You're such a dream." Malcolm nuzzled the top of her head, getting a strong sniff of her shampoo. "Too bad you're already settled in your career—could use a brain like yours around the office."

"I'm telling Sam you said that."

"Don't you dare." He then began to tickle her, all thoughts of planning or work shoved from their minds. The pair ran up the stairs to the bedroom, knowing they had one another's backs.

* * *

A few days later, Malcolm found himself staring up at one of the most impressive buildings he had seen in his life. Hogwarts Castle was indeed a castle, with so many wings and floors and towers that he truly believed it to be a patchwork building over a thousand years old.

"As you can see, the grounds are rather expansive and provide students with all sorts of opportunities to play as well as work on their studies," the Deputy Headmistress said. She was the leader of the tiny group, which consisted of him, Clara, and Mrs. Blackwood. The three of them had taken the Floo Network up to the local village, where the Deputy Headmistress welcomed them and began taking them on a tour. As they went along, Clara had engaged in conversation with some of the students and staff, but so far none of them had seen any ghosts.

"…and what do you do about the students' safety when out exploring the vast school grounds?" Mrs. Blackwood asked pointedly. The Deputy Headmistress simply gave the woman a polite smile, one both Malcolm and Clara could see through instantly.

"We have curfew guidelines in place for all students, as well as general restrictions for younger pupils so that they don't wander where they shouldn't," she explained. Before she could continue, a chime began to ring and it seemed as though the castle itself came to life as a class period ended. The adults walked into a courtyard entrance, where plenty of students were milling about.

"What happens if the tykes don't listen?" Malcolm asked.

"Detention to start, doled out in accordance to the severity of the misconduct," the Deputy Headmistress said. "After that, it's usually at the discretion of staff on whether or not another demerit is worth a detention or suspension, and almost always parents are informed at that level. Only something major involves parent intercession immediately, and fortunately those cases are extremely rare."

"You mean, parents aren't informed from the start?" Mrs. Blackwood asked, slightly startled.

"No—we operate under the policy that the parent has entrusted us with their child, and only if the child is in danger in any way is when we start notifying parents and guardians."

"That's a bit presumptuous," Mrs. Blackwood frowned, pursing her lips. She and the Deputy Headmistress were trading sniping commentary when Malcolm had a tap on the back of his shoulder. He turned around and saw a teenaged boy, one whom he hadn't seen in so long, he was nearly unrecognizable.

"Milo, is that you?" he grinned. "Look at you—a chest-high nip last time I saw you and now you're past my nose!"

"…and you look a lot greyer," Milo giggled. He glanced around the man and saw the subtle war of words that was occurring a few feet away. "You and Miss Oswald convincing a parent it's okay to send their kid here next year?"

"Trying to convince her it's okay to fucking keep her kid here," he replied. "The bat thinks this place is dangerous on account of all the damned ghosts."

"Oh, most of them are really nice, actually," the teen shrugged. "You can't even say that the ones that aren't are mean instead, but simply… there."

"Then can you tell the banshee that? Nothing the rest of us say seems to work and I want to get her out of here before she finds her son and fucking kills his social standing and self-esteem by having Muggle Mam appear out of nowhere."

"Of course." He then stepped between his instructor and the stranger, surprising them both. "Hi, I'm Milo; I hear you have some concerns about Hogwarts? I'm a Muggle-born too, though I'm in Fourth Year, so I can answer a bit more about student life than your son probably can. He's a First Year, yeah?"

"When in the hell did he get here?" Clara hissed at Malcolm.

"You were too busy making sure the war didn't escalate to pay any attention," he replied, leaning down to speak lowly in her ear. "I do have to say though, it looks like Wee Milo's doing alright for himself."

"…and what does Old Malcolm think of Hogwarts? Better than Great Lakes? Jasper? Cascadia? Cottrell? Could always go the extra mile and send the bairns to New Zealand." She smirked, knowing that her fiancée was hooked. "It's not a bad place… and it's even in Scotland."

"That gives it a definite advantage," he chuckled. He pecked her on the cheek quickly and straightened, giving off an air as though nothing was going on. "My place or yours tonight?"

"The brochures and everything are over at yours, so mine is better."

"I was hoping you would say that."


	13. Bitch of a Business Trip, Early 2011

A/N: This also takes place early 2011, when they're engaged, and contains nongraphic nudity, reference to my personal "wtf did the magical community DO during WWI/WWII" conundrum, the employment opportunities allowed to the students that participated in the Battle of Hogwarts, and that wizards are confirmed as being able to be bested by Muggle tech in HP!canon (one of the few after-statements of the HP!canon I whole agree with)

* * *

"It's just a short business trip," she had said. She had kissed his cheek and mussed his hair before Apparating out of the house, leaving him to get ready for work on his own. He had stayed in bed for a moment longer, taking in the residual scent of the perfume she had sprayed in her hair, before rolling off the mattress and grinning the entire time it took to get to work.

That was over two weeks ago. Malcolm hadn't heard from Clara since, and he was beginning to grow worried. Alright, he was far from beginning and worried—he was fucking terrified and there was little Sam could say to make him feel better. Clara was good with technology and didn't say she was going anywhere that had a high concentration of magic, so why hadn't she called? Sent a text? Tapped out a quick email on shoddy, public wifi? There hadn't been so much as an owl tapping its beak on the window.

"You're going to go from grey to white before your wedding," Sam gently scolded. She set a cup of tea down on his desk and patted his shoulder. "Come on now—have a cuppa before that press conference rolls around and you have to do damage control."

"Used to be I couldn't sleep because I was too fucking wound up from work and all the shit that needed to be done," he admitted lowly. He was staring at a spot on the rug, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "What I wouldn't give to have her at my side right now…"

"My guess is that she had to do something special for Minister Shacklebolt," she suggested. "I doubt that she's keeping something from you on-purpose and will explain it all when she returns."

"I hope that's sooner rather than later," he frowned.

Time passed slowly, with Malcolm watching the clock until it was time for him to vacate the building for the weekend. Soon as he could he was out the door, headed to the Tube so he could reach the elevated carpark where his getaway vehicle was ready and waiting, something he had planned on no matter what transpired during that day's adventures of the twits and twats. By ten o'clock he was slowly navigating the Lancashire countryside, feeling the familiar sensation of crossing over the magical barriers that kept Raven's Rook a private and secluded getaway. Since he hadn't heard from Clara, he at least figured he would check in on the house to make sure nothing was wrong there—just because the wards prevented random Muggles from stumbling onto the grounds didn't mean it kept _everything_ out.

Malcolm let himself in the house and began performing a check-over of the place. He aired out the ground floor as he glanced around, sorted the mail, and made sure the copperware didn't try to kill him on-sight. Once everything was closed back up, he ascended the stairs and went straight to Clara's room. He opened the window to let in the breeze and began taking off his suit. It always felt better to be free of his jacket and tie while in Clara's house for some reason and he wasn't entirely sure as to why. Maybe it was the fact that some of the better times involved him completely in the buff, maybe not; he wasn't entirely sure. He was three buttons down on his shirt when he heard the telltale cracking of Apparation downstairs. Padding down the stairs in his stocking feet, he investigated the noise until he saw Clara standing in the sitting room, her back to him.

"…Clara…?" Malcolm hadn't realized how dry his throat was until he heard his own voice, scratchy and low. His fiancée jumped—he had startled her.

" _Fuck_ , Malcolm, what are you doing here?" she asked. She turned around and he could plainly see that she was a complete wreck; not only had it looked like she hadn't slept in days, she had half-healed scratches and bruises on her face and chest.

"My job as your future husband, if you'll let me," he replied. Malcolm opened his arms wide and approached Clara, hugging her gently. She trembled within his grasp, attempting to hold it together, yet when he kissed the crown of her head, her outer shell crumbled and she began sobbing in his arms.

Standing there for a while, he let her have a decent cry before picking her up, which was so easy for her wee, fit frame. Malcolm carried his future bride up the stairs and to her room, where he placed her down on the bed. Carefully, he began to undress her, taking off the pantsuit that she easily could have been in since they last saw one another. Clara sniffled sourly as he did so, cringing when he took off her shirt and exposed more wounds.

"What happened?" he wondered darkly. He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss between her breasts, lingering there as his rage built. "Who did this to you?"

"Malcolm, don't…"

"You've told me wizarding magic is no match for Muggle tech—I will make them pay."

"…it's a life sentence in Azkaban," she murmured, holding his head. "They're already serving it; they are being punished."

"Anyone who touches my fiancée without her permission will consider being guarded by those fucking Grim Reapers _paradise_ if I ever get my hands on them," he growled. "I thought you said you were going to Poland."

"That was what was planned, but we ended up in Siberia chasing the culprits." She shook her head, attempting to recall the information she was trying so hard to forget already. "Macht Marvolo—a radical splinter group from the Death Eaters—was attempting a demonstration at the Polish Ministry of Magic and we had to act. Even using email to warn the Polish magical community it would have been too late."

"…but why _you_?" he croaked. "I thought you had an entire division that took care of shit like that."

"They needed all the help they could get, and I answered the call because I'm certified," she said simply. "Didn't think nutter fascists were clever enough to actually be prepared for Auror intervention."

"Poland didn't want them? No extradition to Germany?"

"They were all British citizens—the German was because they're a bunch of cunts that find the language intimidating and forceful. Not only does it make _them_ look like tits, but it makes things more difficult for the German magical community, the entirety of whom is still trying to recover from the World Wars." She left it at that, not wanting to go into a long-winded lecture on the clusterfuck that was Continental wizarding espionage during the previous hundred or so years, and gently pushed Malcolm away so that she could close her shirt. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Then don't talk," he said. He placed a hand against her face, caressing her gingerly. "Please, let me do this."

"Malc—"

"—if I can't beat those shitstains with my bare fists until they bleed out their unrecognizable, pulpy faces, then I should at least take care of you." He pulled her down for a kiss, ignoring the fact his face was wet with tears. "My lady had a rough couple weeks at the office, meaning that I should be a gentleman and take care of her."

Clara silently nodded, taking his free hand and kissing his knobby knuckles. Malcolm then stood and led her into the bathroom, where he ran the water in the tub until it was a soothing, warm temperature, adding some fizzy bath additives to the tub. Once the water was at the level he wanted, he turned it off and continued to undress his fiancée. Pressing kind kisses to each bruise and scratch he found, he helped her into the tub before stripping the remainder of his clothes from his body and joining her. He sat down and pulled her in close, her back to his chest, holding her as delicately as possible.

"Will they at least suffer where they're at?" he asked.

She turned around and looked him in the eyes, nodding silently.

"Good." He put his arms around her as she leaned into his chest, so bare and sinewy, and allowed herself to relax into his touch. She was home now, and nothing could get to her anymore.


	14. The Witches' Duel, 2010

A/N: The following takes place while our favorite couple are dating, though not yet engaged.

* * *

She actually said it… _to her face_. The stupidity of people was truly unreal.

Now it wasn't a very odd thing for Clara to hear a disparaging comment or two about her dating Malcolm—many of the comments were off-hand mentions of his Muggle status, made in such a way that would have been positively progressive fifteen years prior. Time had unfortunately taken its toll on such talk and now what was wizards being kind amongst other wizards was borderline rude without any intended malice. Now, however, the truly-horrid things came out of people who made Muggle life their pastimes. It once was that the only ones who knew about non-magical life were Muggle-borns and the severely misguided crackpots; now it was in vogue to pay attention to the news on both sides of the Statute, which was what caused this particular debacle.

"You heard me," her coworker said. " _'I wonder what it's like sleeping around with some foul-mouthed maniac who seems to think that it's acceptable to terrorize government workers instead of actually_ _ **doing**_ _something constructive for a change.'_ Have you suddenly gone deaf?" She seemed to take great pleasure in repeating herself, even though she was the sort of person who couldn't stand doing so otherwise.

"Ah, so I did hear you correctly," Clara said, her smile just barely hiding the polite rage contained in her voice. Malcolm was at her side, noticing how the drink in her hand wavered slightly. He glowered over her head at the offending party, taking careful note of who she was in case of future mishaps at government shindigs. This was not the time, nor the place, to get into spats in his opinion (one built on not only gut feeling, but experience), and for once he wanted to simply slink away.

"Come on, love," he murmured in Clara's ear. "Let's head over there—I think I see some friendly faces that way…"

"Not until I set her straight," she insisted. The small witch took a step forward and furrowed her brow in a bombastic combination of determination and rage. "I think you owe him an apology."

"Merely speaking the truth," the coworker chuckled. "Why does that deserve an apology?"

"…because he actually does do work, more than most of the people in this room, so much so that the Muggle government would be in shambles right now without him."

"Shambles or merely moved on to the right people?"

"Clara, I really think we should—"

"I will say it again nicely: you owe Mister Tucker an apology."

The coworker shifted her hips, coolly attempting to brush Clara off. "Not after that fiasco with the interdepartmental ministers' affair. You know… the one where they got caught together in a cheap hotel with extra taxpayers' pounds in their trouser pockets, which would have only looked marginally better had they still been _wearing_ said trousers. Didn't he do _any_ damage control whatsoever, or are Muggles actually _that_ stupid as to—"

The woman was cut off by the glass in her hand shattering, spilling wine all over the place. Everyone in the room grew silent, waiting to see what would happen.

"You ruined my drink _and_ my good suit," the coworker frowned at Clara. "Now why would you do something like that?"

"Let's take this outside," Clara said stiffly. The two women then Disapparated away from the party, the remainder of the guests being left to stand in unsettling quiet. Malcolm felt a hand grab his elbow and he saw Sam standing there, staring where her fellow witches had just been moments before.

"Hold on to your stomach," she whispered. Before her boss could open his mouth he felt the distinct tug of Apparation in his gut, launching him forward and into that magical void that seemed to exist merely to facilitate stomach-churning travel. By the time he set foot back on solid ground again, his lunch decided to revisit him and he was vomiting in a hedge.

"Alright Sammy—where are we?" he wondered, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. He stuffed it in an empty pocket and took a cursory glance around. They seemed to be in the middle of a wood, though where precisely he couldn't say. There was a light moistness to the ground and surrounding foliage, giving the impression of a recent rain.

"Right by where the duel is," she replied. "I couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but it should be around here somewhere."

"…a _duel_?! Didn't that shit go by the wayside with Victorian values and the fucking horseback cavalry?"

"You'd be surprised, though we are talking about _wizards_ , who seem to be a couple centuries behind on the times anyhow." Sam led the way as they walked through the wood in search of the fight. "Clara learned how to duel from the best of them—don't worry. She was a star pupil in Dumbledore's Army."

"Whose fucking army?"

"Dumbledore's… sort of. I can explain it later." They came upon a ridge, which they looked down and saw the duel taking place. Clara and the other witch were matching one another blow for blow, with all sorts of bursts of light sparking and sizzling between them.

"This is a new experience," Malcolm marveled. "Never had my honor defended like this before." He watched as his love attempt to magically rip her opponent to shreds. It turned him on more than he'd like to admit to anyone, his PA included, and simply stood there, taking in the scene.

"I wonder why she got this upset though," Sam mused. "Isn't she usually much calmer than this?"

"Generally speaking, yeah, but something that twat said really made her lose it," he replied. "Never warned me your old school mate has a temper touchier than that of a twitchy American while making less sense."

"At least we can tell it's for you."

"Yeah."

Malcolm allowed himself a small smile as the duel continued. While the witch whose name he neither knew, nor cared to know, kept shouting gibberish before every blow, Clara kept on without uttering a single word. Eventually it seemed as though her opponent was running out of steam, which gave her the opportunity to strike.

Though, instead of completely eradicating the tit, the witch's wand flew out of her hand and, after a twirl from Clara, disappeared in a puff of smoke. The victor allowed herself to collapse happily in the grass, after which Malcolm and Sam went down the ridge to see her.

"What the fuck did you go and do that for?!" he shouted as he jogged up, the only emotion in his voice being sheer admiration. He helped Clara stand while Sam found the witch-less wand, allowing her tiny figure to lean against him for support. "I get worse on a daily basis at work."

"It was the last straw," she explained, voice airy and weak. Her hair was a mess and sweat was dripping from her temples. "She's been on my bad side for a while, but insinuating that I'm some lay-about's slut in a public setting like that was _it_."

"If anything, I'm _your_ slut, darling," he smirked. Malcolm leaned down and kissed her; it was tame enough to take place in front of Sam, but the emotion behind it, as well as his trouser fabric, suggested that he was not going to let things end there. "So…?"

"So what?"

"What'd you do with her?"

"Gave her a one-way ticket to the Tanami Desert, which is more than she deserves," Clara scowled. She took the wand Sam offered and tapped it with her own, causing it to disappear as well. "With her wand at her desk, she either has to hope that some Aboriginal wizards get her out so they don't have to listen to her anymore, or that she holds her tongue while dealing with Muggles. Either way seems like she's not returning anytime soon."

"That sounds _incredibly_ vicious," Malcolm grinned widely. Okay, now it was pretty obvious he was beyond turned-on and didn't care if Sam was aware—she was a sharp lass and knew more than most gave her credit for. He went and kissed Clara again, this time deeper and with more passion, until he heard Sam vanish with a _crack_.

That was when he pounced, not caring where in the world they were, damn it. He was going to show his appreciation for her potentially breaking more than a few laws for him and there was no time to waste.


	15. The Scottish Portrait, 2010

A/N: Someone wanted Malcolm and Mad-Eye Moody bonding, so this was what I came up with. Takes place in 2010.

* * *

Leaning back in the comfortable chair, Malcolm settled in as he watched Clara eviscerate her coworker. The tea set silently offered him a cuppa and he accepted, knowing it was perfectly sugared-up to his specifications.

" _Why_ did you think it was a good idea to effectively _kidnap_ a government backbencher and keep him in a Hogsmeade cellar?!" Clara snapped. She was incredibly talented at cowing the disobedient and rambunctious into behaving without resorting to the more colorful style he tended to employ, yet it was beautiful to watch all the same. Malcolm chewed on a biscuit idly and kept on observing, silently taking in the details as he mentally composed the several press releases he would need to deploy on the matter.

"Bloody morons—can barely get a lick of work in without them fucking things up," a voice muttered lowly. Malcolm glanced towards the wall directly to his right and saw that the painting was suddenly occupied. He was now used to the comings and goings of magical portraits and photographs, though this was a new one to him. The man looked grizzled and in a poor state, as though he had been through his fair share of conflicts, and spoke in an accent the Muggle distinctly recognized as one similar to his own.

"…and you are…?" Malcolm wondered, keeping his voice down so as not to interrupt the bollocking.

"Alastor Moody; you might've met my protégé, Tonks, wherever the lass is," the portrait said. "I should be asking who you are, wee cunt. Not every day I visit this frame and there's a Muggle helping himself to tea."

"Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for the Prime Minister," he replied. "Don't worry—I've been briefed on the whole magic thing… even dating that lass right there." Malcolm motioned towards Clara with his cuppa, a grin creeping across his face. "She's as magic as they come."

"Not talking about being magic in bed," Moody snarked.

"She is, now that you mention it." He glanced at the portrait and raised a brow. "Now what the fuck are you doing? You're a godddamned painting—paintings don't look at women."

"Only observant. Remember that constant vigilance is the difference between life and death out in the field!" Malcolm attempted to not chuckle and roll his eyes; this was clearly the portrait of some madman and he could have some fun with it.

"Well, this tit wasn't vigilant," he said, going back to the bollocking again. "How do you propose we help Miss Oswald ram that into his fucking very soul?"

"I'd say to turn him into one of them little hedgehog bastards and try feeding him to a dog, just so he can see how it feels," Moody suggested gleefully.

"Oh, I like that," Malcolm nodded. "What about a newt or something like that?"

"Ach, newts never work—they always get better. A toad'd work well, and then you can give him to some Hogwarts nip saying it's the real deal."

"You're a nasty fucker," Malcolm snickered. "What if he tried sneaking in the girls' dorms?"

"The protective wards would catch him, and then he'd be in even more trouble," Moody replied. "Hey, here's something even you could do: tie him up by his toenails and prod him with a hot poker."

"I mostly threaten, so there's a sort of interesting lure of actually using genu-fucking-ine torture in my line of work." The Muggle sipped his tea and imagined it, though it was Clara he imagined doing the torturing. It was a bit more of a turn-on than he'd like to admit and his eyes went glassy as she continued her evisceration, which by now he had completely tuned out. "Fuck, she's great at what she does."

"Aye, she's a good lass—one you don't have to keep too close because she knows how life gets. I would have killed to have her on my team back when I was alive had she been old enough."

"First you mention a female protégé, now you say you'd be after my girlfriend… I'm not sure how I should take this," Malcolm said. The painting laughed, a low, rumbling sound that was nearly as gnarled as his face.

"Naw, it's nothing like that. I only want the best and the brightest to work under me as Aurors. There's no room for error out in the field—"

"…hence 'constant vigilance'."

"Exactly. You're not a bad lad yourself. Probably would've poached you from that ruddy ponce by now and made you special Muggle Ops if given the chance."

"The field isn't for me, but thanks." Malcolm swiped another biscuit from the tea set and munched on it idly. "I guess it could be, though I doubt it. I'm just the Weegie git who stalks about Whitehall, there when a cockup arises to shout it all away."

"The only Weegie who's a true git are those cocksuckers that had the gall to suppress themselves in English schools and turn up their noses at us like we were gutter filth," Moody snarled. Malcolm could tell the emotion was not directed at him, but that whomever this man was, he had known about more prejudices than simply magic compared to non-magic. "Glad to see that's starting to go away though, what with you being here and all. Director of Communications is important."

"Important, yeah, but I'm still a being to fear… even if I didn't make myself that way."

"Fuck 'em. They're not worth it. Your Oswald lass… she's the one who's worth it."

"Yeah, I guess I am." Malcolm and Moody both glanced over and saw Clara standing before them, hands on her hips and government peon dispatched. She sat down on her beau's lap, though not with any intent of a naughty moment, and stared at them. "Did you get all that, Malcolm? You _are_ here so you can write using the facts, not to eat all my biscuits and chat up the portraits."

"I was not fucking _chatting up_ anyone or anything," he scowled, trying to sound as offended as possible. "I just so happened to have made a friend, is all."

"Mister Moody, clear the room please," Clara requested. She draped her arms around Malcolm's neck and leaned into him, her intent now clear. "I have to teach my lad a lesson."

"Sure thing, Miss Oswald," he half-cackled. Within a couple minutes all the portraits and photos around the office were wiped clean of their occupants. When they were, Malcolm dared to put his hands on Clara's hips.

"Give me the breakdown, darling," he murmured while she kissed the tip of his nose. "Don't worry—I can take it."

"For one, there's an entire magical community living in the United Kingdom right under your very beaky nose," she said. She giggled when he feigned shock, eyes going wide and brows rising.

"Magic? Like witches?"

"Magic like this," she smirked. She kissed him and he kissed back; that alone was magical enough for both of them.


	16. The Inquiry, Nov 2012 - Jan 2013

A/N: The prompt was "Clara telling Malcolm she's pregnant". I came up with this instead. Starts in late 2012 and ends in January 2013.

* * *

Malcolm stared at the photograph put up on the projector screen—he didn't even think image resolution went that high. His heart skipped a beat as he sat there speechless. It was true that he had gotten hold of Mister Tickell's NHS number—that he couldn't deny—but purposely leaking it? He hadn't even realized he _accidentally_ leaked it. Nothing had seemed out of place that day from what he could frantically recall, which made things all the more terrifying as he tried to find words.

"Mister Tucker?" the inquiry member prompted. "I shall repeat the question: What do you make of this?"

He spent the next five minutes sputtering and using his most charming smile to show that he really, truly had no idea what was going on. Things weren't going south… they were going into fucking outer-space. South would be nice in comparison—it's just a cardinal direction—but this was something he couldn't weather. Malcolm kept tight-lipped about anything and everything else for the remainder of the day before dodging the press and catching the nearest plainclothes taxicab back to his quiet neighborhood. He walked the remainder of the way home, hoping the couple of blocks would allow him to think. Instead, the inquiry stayed on his mind the entire way home, remaining at the forefront even as he entered his house and flopped down on the couch.

Yes, Malcolm had been investigating Tickell's medical history thanks to cashing in a favor, though he wasn't about to leak it… not like that. Dropping a fact or two had been a possibility, but not unless it was beneficial to his cause. Keep the public out of things unless necessary: that was his motto. When people insisted, then what the fuck and why not and all that, but once Tickell bit the dust, well, the game changed.

A flicker of green flame appeared in the fireplace before flaring up and allowing Clara to step outside of the Floo Network. He noticed she'd been taking it instead of Apparating lately, though he never exactly had bothered to ask why. Clara took his wedding ring off its perch on the mantle and walked over to him, kneeling down next to the couch and sliding it on his finger, as was their ritual. He hadn't worn it to work since his party lost the general elections a while back, hoping it would protect her from sharks circling his personal life, waiting to strike at a weak spot.

"The doctor moved my physical up, so I missed catching what happened in the inquiry today," she said. She stroked his hair and watched as his eyes didn't leave the spot he chose on the ceiling. "That bad, huh?"

"I'm fucked," he replied hoarsely. "My papers had been shuffled around one day when I was photographed outside. Tickell's NHS number was on it."

"Oh…" Clara said, voice quiet. She sat down on the edge of the couch cushion and placed her hand on his face, directing his attention towards her. "I knew you had that number, but be honest with me: did you display it on purpose?"

"No."

"Then would you like me to help you?"

"No—I had Sam look into the cunts lobbing questions and one of them used to work in France at a magic-based shipping company known for hiring Muggles. He knows how to catch the signs of magical tampering."

"What if the photograph was magically tampered? What if it was modified on the computer?"

"Sammy's looking into it and it doesn't look good," he muttered. "It's my handwriting, darling. You might as well file for an actual divorce instead of pretending—I won't get out until I'm an old, old man."

Clara sighed and arranged herself to lay down along her husband's body. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her hair. She could feel the worry in him as his fingers traced light circles along her upper arm.

"How likely do you think it is you would serve any sort of time?" she wondered. "I know that's what they're looking to do."

"I can almost bet on it," he said. He trembled slightly—fuck, he was _trembling_ —and squeezed her a bit tighter. "At least it won't be Azkaban."

"Don't go saying things like that before it even happens," she ordered softly, placing a hand on his chest. "It might be two months and a heavy fine, which we'd be able to afford, by the way."

"I didn't know what to say," he admitted. "Malcolm Tucker, the man who has words for every fucking occasion, couldn't explain one shitty photo—I'm done for."

"We'll weather it," Clara assured him. "We will definitely find a way."

* * *

The Goolding Inquiry and the subsequent court cases went early into the following year. Malcolm's part in the ordeal was one of the first to have a sentence levied upon it: fifteen years total for various charges, none of which could be served consecutively. It was generous, since he had not intended to leak Mister Tickell's information in such a manner, but a lack of intent did not change the fact it actually happened. He would at least be in low-security prison, with a chance at parole after several years, but it didn't look good as he glanced over the terms of his stay in the custody of Her Majesty. At least he was allowed a week at home with Clara "to settle his affairs", which meant plenty of tender lovemaking as he created memories to take with him behind bars. By the time the morning he was scheduled to turn himself in, the former Director of Communications was well-sexed and felt a shell of his former self.

"It's alright if you move on while I'm gone," he muttered. Clara dusted off the shoulders of his jumper and frowned.

"I'm not sending you any divorce papers to sign, mainly because there will be _no divorce_ ," she said matter-of-factly. "The concept of _us_ isn't going anywhere."

"You're too kind," he said.

"Not too kind—I simply take my vows seriously." She took his left hand in hers and slid the wedding band off his finger. "You'll get this back when I have you back."

"I'll count on it."

Malcolm kissed his wife good-bye and walked out front door, letting it lock behind him. He went towards the main street and hailed a cab, taking that to the police station he was scheduled to check-in at. It was a small, quiet station, out of the way and the place he found to be the least-humiliating as far as where to be processed. He was almost immediately brought into the back, shuffled into a tiny room that only possessed a table, four chairs, and a two-way mirror.

When prompted, he sat down, waiting for whomever it was that was to begin processing him into the system. It felt a bit off, sitting alone as the remainder of the stationhouse was going about their day. Time seemed to drag by—when were they going to get it over with?

Eventually, a young man came into the room and sat down across from him. He placed his paper file down on the table and opened it.

"Good morning, Mister Tucker," he said cordially. "Thank you for cooperating and making this as seamless as possible."

"Not like I have much choice," he replied. "Do I stay here for any amount of time or do I go straight to my new home?"

"About that: it looks like we've got a change of plans," the officer said. Malcolm raised an eyebrow and waited for the explanation. "You've been partially exonerated through an appellate court, by a judge I've never heard of, though all the paperwork checks out. The judge herself is here to take you to your next destination."

Malcolm's jaw nearly dropped into his lap. ".b-b-but…"

"Hey, it's out of my hands now," the young officer said. "Congratulations, Mister Tucker; you get to bollock another day." He then left, allowing a young-ish woman to enter the room. She picked up the paper file and scanned it quickly before closing the folder.

"Hello there, Mister Tucker. My name is Judge Bones." She held out her hand, and he stood to shake it. "You are very lucky that we were able to catch this in time, or you would have likely been put away in a sentence harsher than is necessary."

"I didn't appeal though…" he marveled. "I didn't fight a damned thing."

" _You_ might not have, but there are some people still on your side," she said, giving him a smile. Judge Bones led him out of the room and checked them both out at the front desk. Malcolm then did what he thought he wouldn't be able to do for years: breathe free air.

Quickly, Judge Bones escorted Malcolm down the street and towards what seemed like an abandoned plot of land. Tucked away in the corner there was a rusty pipe sticking out of the ground, which they promptly stood before.

"Should we be here?" he asked. "I'm getting the fucking heebie-jeebies."

"On three, Mister Tucker," she replied simply. "One… two…"

' _Holy fuck_ ,' he thought. ' _A Portkey_.'

"Three."

They grabbed onto the pipe and were yanked into the portal, popping out in the Ministry of Magic on the other side. Malcolm nearly fell over on account of dizziness, though was caught by the loveliest pair of arms he could possibly imagine.

"Welcome back," Clara grinned. She planted a kiss on his cheek before helping him right himself. They were in an office he hadn't been in yet, though he recognized the architecture, as well as the paper airplanes that were zooming about in the corridor.

"I don't get it," Malcolm marveled. "What's going on?"

"Mrs. Oswald brought your case to our attention and I put a team into investigating not only the trial, but the evidence as well," Judge Bones stated. "Not only did we find some less-than-savory things going on within the prosecution, but traces of magic had been found on the specific piece of paper that you were carrying with Mister Tickell's NHS number. _You_ were not the one to leak the number, neither on purpose nor by accident, meaning that you are a free man."

"Fucking fuck me… I'm actually _free_?!"

"Partially—we're going to have to move to Raven's Rook," Clara added. "The less the Muggle world sees of you, the better off we'll all be, since _officially_ you're currently on your way to some reform compound in the middle of Wales."

"I don't care where I'm supposed to be officially; I'm _free_!" He grabbed his wife and yanked her towards him, leaning down to give her a relieved, nearly desperate, kiss.

"I'll let you two be then," Judge Bones chuckled. She left the room, closing the door behind her, allowing Malcolm and Clara some private conversation.

"I can't believe you did it," he murmured as they parted. He held his wife's face in his hands, overjoyed to see her again, let alone touch her, after having prepared for years of midnight wanks and wet dreams. "I thought there wasn't anything you could do—you're not a lawyer."

"I'm not, but I'm also not going to allow my husband and the father of my child miss a single moment because he's in _prison_ of all things," she said sternly. Malcolm blinked, unsure he heard correctly.

"Wait a second… you're…?!"

"Yes—three months now," she beamed. Tears began running down her cheeks as she reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders. "I would have told you earlier, but…"

"Don't fucking apologize," he interrupted, choking up himself. "Don't you _ever_ apologize for _anything_ , you hear me?"

"Be careful—I might hold you to that," she giggled. He then brought her in for another kiss, this one slower and more precise than the other.

Not only was he free, but he was going to be a father. As far as days go, it was one with the best turnaround he could have ever imagined.


	17. Sorcha's First Broom, June 2015

A/N: ...and now we get to the bambino, because Malcolm and Clara have to spawn.

* * *

Malcolm watched as his little girl bounced around the garden, happily chasing the butterflies as he pretended to read his book. She giggled gaily, sparks of magic allowing her to step just barely over the blades of grass. His daughter was shaping up to be one hell of a witch, that much he knew, and she was barely a week shy of two years old—it made him proud.

Things were very quiet, which was very much business as usual for Raven's Rook, until the twin sounds of Apparation broke the tranquility from the other side of the house. Clara and Sam came around the corner, the latter holding a thin box in her arm. The very moment the little girl saw them, she ran full-speed, crashing into the women's legs.

"Mummy! Auntie Sammy!" she cheered. "You here!"

"Yes we are, darling," Clara cooed, picking up her daughter and nuzzling her. She stopped when Malcolm stood and made his way over, exchanging pecks on the cheek. "Was she good today?"

"Our Sorcha? Impeccable." He then spied the box his former assistant was holding, an eyebrow rising carefully. "What'cha got there?"

"My goddaughter's birthday present, since I'm going to miss her birthday proper," Sam replied. The toddler's eyes grew wide as she gasped in delight.

"Pwesent?! For me?!"

"Yes, and you can open it now if you promise Mummy that you'll be a good girl and behave for Daddy while she's on her business trip next week," Clara said.

Wee Sorcha considered the terms and nodded, finding them satisfactory. "Yes! Pwesent pweese!"

Clara put her daughter down on the grass and Sam handed her the wrapped box. Sorcha plopped herself down and began tearing at the paper, squealing in delight as she discovered the contents.

"A bwoom! Mummy! Daddy! Auntie Sammy gived me a bwoom!" she gasped. Sorcha hugged her honorary aunt before beginning to tear at the box. "Tanks Auntie Sammy!"

"Fucking—Clara, Sammy, are you sure this is a good idea?" Malcolm whispered. He watched as his little girl procured the broom from the box and hopped on it, hovering just high enough for the grass to tickle her toes. "What if she decides she's cross with me and wants to run away to her granddad's?"

"Going to Granddad's means going to Miss Linda's; she's not going anywhere," Clara replied. She picked up the box and passed it to her husband. "See? It says that it won't go more than a hundred meters away from the home unless activated by a parent."

"…but what about _Muggle parents_?"

"I'll set it up before I leave—don't worry," Clara assured him. The three adults watched Sorcha as she zoomed about the garden, her light-brown hair trailing along behind her while she went at speeds barely higher than she could run. "She's so happy… it was a good idea, Sam."

"I'm glad; maybe we can get some Quidditch equipment for her at Christmas. It would at least help keep her active."

"Then it's a good thing she's also got a nice, boring, non-magic football coming her way," Malcolm groused. "It's been years and I don't understand a fucking lick of it. The lads who came up with that one had to of been complete nutters."

"Malcolm…" Sam scolded.

"Don't worry," Clara cut in, rolling her eyes, "that's down from last year when he wanted to give her a rugby ball."

"She'd be a great flanker one day, maybe even a hooker if she wants," he grinned. "That's for her to decide though, now innit?"

"At least the broom is utilitarian," Clara stated. "The more she rides now, the better off she'll be in the long-run."

"Now arguing that would just make me look like a cunt," Malcolm chuckled. He kissed Clara on the lips and Sam on the forehead—he couldn't argue with a pair of first-class witches, not when he was attempting to raise one himself.

It was the following week and Malcolm was home alone with Sorcha on her birthday. The little girl knew her mum and auntie were away one a very important mission for the Minister of Magic, and that's the _only_ reason why her birthday party was being moved back a fortnight, but what she didn't know was that it involved a trip to the WSPA and bollocking some Americans concerning some data hackers using magitech and what the Muggle public was going to be allowed to know. They had been treading the edges of the Statute as of late, and Minister Shacklebolt thought it would be wise to send someone over in "an advisory capacity". This meant that young Sorcha was experiencing her first instance of it being her birthday without actually celebrating.

"Can we go into town, Daddy?" she asked excitedly, hopping up and down. Her father was putting together part of their breakfast—the copperware insisted on doing the frying, though the knives didn't mind the Muggle giving them the morning off as he chopped up some bacon and tomato.

"Maybe later, kiddo," he said. "Your mam wants us to stick close to the house unless absolutely necessary; I can explain a lot of things, but if you accidentally use magic, things could get messy."

"Oh, okay," she replied, sighing dramatically. Sorcha laid herself down underneath the table, looking up at the underside of it in despair. "When does Mummy get back?"

"In a couple days, like normal," her father said. Malcolm left the cookware to do what it did best and crouched next to the table. He could remember dealing with other people's nips when they got irritable—Cal's youngest, Emily, in particular—and it was a good thing he could pick up precisely where he left off when it came to his bairn. "You miss Mam, don't'cha?"

"Yeah," the little girl admitted. "No funs wifout Mummy on my birftday.."

"How about if you go ride your broom for a wee bit before breakfast? Just in the garden?" Malcolm offered. His daughter perked up immediately, dashing out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room. Her father knew that things could have been worse, and that at least she adored the ever-living fuck out of her toy broom. He pretended to not notice as she bounced through the kitchen again, bristles dragging behind her, and went out the door. She stayed within sight of the window, allowing him to watch over her carefully.

It was then that his mobile chirped, signaling him that Clara was calling. He picked up the device and put it to his ear.

"Now is this my deliciously-shaggable wife or her terribly forgiving and understanding assistant?" he answered.

" _It's me_ ," Clara smirked on the other end. " _Just calling to check in on Sorcha. Is she up yet?_ "

"Up and riding around the garden, like every morning," Malcolm assured. "How's the Wizarding States and Provinces of America?"

" _The usual: our daughter could run circles around them both literally and figuratively. Can I talk to the birthday girl?_ "

"Yeah, just a sec." Malcolm opened the kitchen window a crack and leaned into it. "Sorcha! Mam's on the phone!" He laughed as he watched her fall off her broom in excitement, facilitating the need to chase it as it careened towards the garden wall. "Our girl's a fucking natural, hon. She's a real talent at this flying shit."

" _I'd like to know how you figured that out—you still can't ride a broom while staying completely upright_."

"I just know, okay?" He then paused as his daughter came into the house, pulling her floating broom behind her. "Alright, here she is; give 'em hell."

" _You've got it_."

Malcolm passed the mobile to Sorcha and continued preparing breakfast. He was almost done with the fry-up when he felt the tip of his girl's broom poke against his calf. Shooing it away didn't work, and he cursed under his breath as it continued to harass him, all the way until Sorcha hung up the mobile.

"Kiddo—stop your broom from poking your ol' da's leg raw," he said. Sorcha obeyed and plucked the broom from mid-air, letting it rest against the wall, before sitting down and waiting for her breakfast. Malcolm set her plate down in front of her before taking a seat himself. "So, how's Mam?"

"Good," she replied, her mouth full of food. "Mummy misses me too."

"That's good."

"Yes, good." Sorcha kicked her feet happily and hummed while she ate, unknowingly melting Malcolm's heart in the process. She was such a wee thing, yet she already had him wrapped around her fingers.

"Say… how about we go down to the village?" he suggested. "Just don't tell Mam?"

Sorcha beamed with excitement. _Of course_.

* * *

A/N: For those of us amongst the uninitiated, flanker and hooker are both positions in rugby union (with the latter also appearing in rugby league). While I love American rules football, rugby is basically what NFL-style play wants to be, just without all the heavy padding and more collisions.


	18. First Day of Freedom, Jan 2013

A/N: The following takes place the morning after chapter sixteen.

* * *

Warm sunlight and birdsong both filtered in through the open window as Malcolm woke, his arms wrapped around his wife and child. Fuck—twenty-four hours earlier he was headed down to the coppers with his tail between his legs, not realizing what he was walking away from. Now... _now_ he was able to be there for nappies and first steps and everything a father should experience. He gently brushed the hair away from her neck and pressed a kiss to the back of it before sliding out of bed. Plucking his pants off the floor, he went outside the bedroom to put them on and went down the stairs.

As he went through Raven's Rook, Malcolm allowed himself a continual, lopsided smile while he imagined what the future was soon to bring. He could envision a wee hellion running around the house, refusing to wear clothes, let alone a nappy, coloring on the walls and climbing all over things they shouldn't. There were going to be plenty of bruised knees and light scratches healed by kisses from Mam and Da; laughter and life and all the things he didn't think really were possible back when he met Clara. What a fucking difference eight years made.

He rounded his way into the kitchen and found the pots and pans floating about and waiting commands, seemingly upset that it was him that entered and not Clara. Well, fuck—that's right. His wee bairn, baking up there in their mam's belly, was very likely going to be magic. They'd grow up in a completely different world as he did. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, considering the scraping and climbing he had to do all his life, and he'd rather that than the kid be a Muggle like himself. People like Sam slipped between either side of the Statute all the time, living their lives and code-switching like any other multi-cultural individual, but people like _him_ … he was going to be lucky if the cookware cooperated.

"Alright ya pieces of shite, listen up," he growled. "I'm gonna make my wife breakfast, and _don't try to stop me_ , or you'll find yourselves in a charity shop."

The pots and pans, rather insulted, shrank themselves and went into their cupboard while Malcolm took a Muggle, non-shrinking, non-sentient, pan from another. He got to work immediately, whisking eggs, chopping veg, making tea, and figuring out where the kitchen hid the toaster. The tray was at least a good sport and helped out, allowing him to take the toast and mugs up himself instead of piling them atop of something else. He gently eased open the bedroom door with his foot, grinning when he saw Clara still laying in bed and splayed out as he had left her. She was just barely awake, blinking at him slowly as she cracked a smile.

"Now what's this…?" she asked hazily.

"Breakfast in bed—Mam and Dad need to take advantage of these days, considering they're numbered," he replied with a chuckle. Clara sat up and covered her cold chest with the bedsheet as the tray floated over to her lap. Malcolm sat down with her and began fussing over the breakfast, making it so that she could at least use it without resorting to placing her tea on the nightstand.

"These days are numbered, but a good many others are coming," she smirked. She took a bite of her omelette and pecked her husband on the cheek. "Mmm, delicious, thanks."

"I'm glad," he said. "Actually, I'm just glad that the fucking pans listened and went away when I threatened to bin them."

"Did they?" she giggled.

"I didn't think copper could look so bollocked, but they proved me wrong."

"Good—I must be rubbing off on you then." Clara glanced at Malcolm and laughed when she saw his eyebrow raised in confusion. "The longer we're together, the more likely magical items are going to follow your commands. It's like how us being in a proper marriage will slow your aging down to something closer to what a wizard experiences."

"Will I eventually be able to, you know, _do_ magic?" he wondered.

"Maybe the most basic of spells, and only with my wand, or our child's wand; otherwise you're so Muggle that they should test Anti-Muggle spells on you at the Ministry," she explained. She was about to continue when her face went nearly green and the breakfast tray immediately gave her room to dash from the bed and into the bathroom. She vomited what used to be a rather tasty omelette and groaned, only placated by feeling Malcolm come up behind her and hold her hair back.

"You got really good at hiding this part," he stated as he bunched all her hair in one hand so he could rub her back.

"It was mostly at work or when we were apart for the Inquiry," she admitted. "Fuck… I thought I was done with this nonsense."

"Let me put it this way: are you at least coming up on that legendary part of being up the duff that all you want to do is shag?"

"We shag a lot to begin with, Malcolm."

"I know, but we could shag _more_ ," he murmured in her ear. Clara elbowed him playfully and flushed the toilet, getting up to wash her face in the sink. She felt her husband's hands rest on her hips while she splashed water on her face and he was still there when she toweled off, looking her in the eyes via the mirror. "So, when will you show?"

"Should be soon—there's not a lot to me to begin with, meaning it could be any day now. Of course I'm due in early June, but every woman's experiences are different."

"I really don't know much about this, so you're going to have to let me know everything," he requested, kissing the top of her head. "This is my job now: taking care of you two, and I want to make sure I do the best sodding job possible."

"For all the times your sister calls to complain about every little thing, she never complained to you when she was pregnant?" she chuckled. "That doesn't sound like her."

"That was for her husband to hear, not her older brother," he scowled. "It was bad enough that, at the time, a baby was just proof my wee sister was getting herself fucked senseless on a daily basis."

"I pity whomever it is that decides they want to date any daughter we have," Clara sighed, shaking her head. She leaned back into Malcolm's chest and observed the both of them in the mirror, smiling fondly. "I hope the baby inherits your height."

"As long as they get your nose, darling."

"Your hair."

"Your dimples."

"Your grin."

"Your kindness."

"Your ferocity."

"Your laugh."

"Your sensibility."

"Your magic."

Before Clara could respond, Malcolm turned her around and kissed her. She allowed it, despite her confusion, until she finally pushed back when she felt the sink press into her back.

"Hey… what if our baby isn't magic?" she asked quietly. "What would happen then?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," he decided. "Our child is going to be the best kid out there, whether they go to school in the village, or up to that Hogwarts nonsense. Would we really have to go all the way to London just so they could get on the train?"

"Remember: _magic_."

"Yeah, but it seems like a waste; shouldn't it make stops or some shit like that? That's what a normal fucking train does."

"Then it wouldn't be called the Hogwarts _Express_ ," Clara teased. She kissed Malcolm again before patting his chest playfully. "Come on now, back to breakfast. I'm hungry again."

"So this is doing nothing to kill your appetite; good to know," he said, allowing her to lead him back to bed. The breakfast tray floated down to rest in Clara's lap once again, and she finished the remainder of her breakfast, Malcolm's arm wrapped around her so that his hand sat along her hip.

It was going to take a while of waiting, but they knew that before summer came for good, they'd have their little one in their arms. They felt like the luckiest couple in the world, despite their logic telling them otherwise, and that was what really, truly mattered.


	19. Sorcha's Arrival, June 2013

A/N: All I know is that the following takes place June 2013, that people keep on asking me for not-bollockings, and that I have a beef w/St. Mungo's for being kinda crappy when stacked up against Muggle hospitals as far as the breadth of services (and have since I was 14yo).

* * *

When a baby witch or wizard is born, whether it be to at least one magical parent or to a set of truly unsuspecting Muggles, the most major risk is often not to the mother or child, as Malcolm learned, but to the individuals delivering said baby. He had been hoping that he could take Clara to a normal, Muggle hospital and then his sister and niece could visit whenever it was they wanted, even if it took one of those sodding Polyjuice potions to disguise him while there. That wasn't to be the case, much to his chagrin, as when it was the morning Clara was scheduled to go to be induced in the hospital, she stepped into the fireplace.

"Wait, I thought we were going to take the car," he said, hand outstretched towards the keys. He had her overnight bag over his shoulder and a truly confused look on his face.

"Not to St. Mungo's," she replied. "I thought you knew that's where we need to be."

"Why…? A baby's a baby—you said yourself that most nips don't start showing signs of magic until they're at least two."

"Yes, but it's also not rare for the first cry to do something like short-circuit the power grid at a Muggle hospital, or make doctor and baby teleport their way to Leeds," she explained. Clara held out her hand and her husband took it, joining her in the rather large fireplace. "I gave the Healer a duck bill and cat whiskers—that doesn't even go into the magic that came out of _Mum_ during labor."

"What am I gonna tell Tash? Bad enough she doesn't know you're magic yet, but you know how fucking excited she's been about getting a cousin."

"On three." Clara took a handful of Floo Powder and gave Malcolm an apologetic smirk. "One, two, three!"

" _St. Mungo's_ ," they said in unison as she tossed the powder down on the ground. Green engulfed them and when it waned, the couple were no longer in Lancashire, but down in London and the massive magic-hospital there.

"You never answered my question," Malcolm frowned. They walked from the fireplace and over to the front desk, where Clara checked in and was told it would be a few minutes still. He led her over to the waiting area and they sat. "Natasha is going to be fucking _livid_ —she's got the Tucker Temperament in spades."

"With any luck, this baby will fart glitter dust on her or something and when we have another, she can come to St. Mungo's then," she stated firmly. She had been absolutely adamant since the beginning of their relationship that she would not purposely tell Malcolm's young niece that there was a magical community until she knew she was old enough to not be jealous and spiteful. Not even Malcolm was fully part of it, so to tell her there was a fantastic world that she could never be truly accepted in would be cruel.

"Also: did it _have_ to be London? This place gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies just sitting here."

"The Burnley and Glasgow campuses were filled up, and despite this being a magical _injury_ hospital in name, it is still the best place in the country for magical patients of any sort."

After a prolonged silence, the almost-parents then attempted to make small talk in order to not spend the entire time sniping at one another. Eventually they were called back by the witch at the desk, and that was when things got going. The birthing process wasn't necessarily something that seemed any different in St. Mungo's from any other hospital, from what Malcolm could glean, except for yes, his wife and daughter both expelled severely high amounts of magical energy over the course of the nine-hour labor; his skin turned an interesting shade of blue-violet, and he was the one in the room that got off easy.

 _His daughter_. When all the screaming and pain was over and the main Healer's sudden case of literally-feathered hair had subsided, Malcolm sat in the room and held his daughter along his arm with ease. She was sleeping peacefully, the ultimate lull into a false sense of security a child could ever perform against their parents, while he was nothing short of beaming proudly.

"There's a good lass," he murmured gently. He found her tiny hand and held it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, ready to cry. "Get used to seeing this ugly face—Mam's too important of a lady in the Ministry to be the one to stay at home with you."

"Don't scare her while she's a couple hours old," Clara laughed. She still felt slightly loopy from the medical spells that had been used on her, and therefore was perfectly happy with Malcolm having a near-monopoly on their daughter as he perched on the edge of the mattress. The spells had worn off enough already though for her to notice an odd look on her husband's face that wasn't related to the awe involved with the baby. "What's the matter?"

"I know we agreed on Elena, but looking at her, she doesn't seem like an Elena," he explained quietly. It was the softness to his voice that let Clara know that he was dead-serious. "Something tells me that it should be her middle name."

"…and what would we call her instead?"

"…Sorcha."

It was then that the baby opened her eyes and made a faint gurgling noise and Clara chuckled, "Sounds like she agrees. Where'd you get it from?"

"Granny had a friend growing up by that name and I always liked the sound of it," he confessed. "It means _radiant_ , so it's not that far off."

"Sorcha it is then," she agreed. "Sorcha Elena Tucker."

" _Oswald_ —you're the magic one," he insisted.

"You sure?" she wondered. "You're more than entitled to give our daughter your last name."

"It would be a hollow thing—I'm not sure I like Tucker that much anymore." He watched as Sorcha's murky eyes closed again and sighed. "Sorcha Oswald, you're going to be the most incredible witch to go to Hogwarts since your mam graduated, and your old Muggle of a dad's gonna make sure you get there."

"In other words: Daddy's spent too much time around Mummy while she was carrying you, and now _he's_ the sentimental and hormonal one," Clara cut in.

"Fuck off, darling," Malcolm smirked. He then leaned in and kissed his wife, simply glad that he had her and their daughter both.


	20. First Day Back, Late Summer 2013

A/N: Here's a short one set a couple months after Sorcha is born, so roughly August/September 2013.

* * *

The Ministry was apparently in omnishambles, according to Sam. She had kept things together best she could, for she was the one attempting to hold down the fort during Clara's maternity leave, but by the time four months had gone by, she was nearly begging for her new boss's return to work.

"Are you _sure_ everything will be alright?" Clara asked. She watched as Malcolm sat at the kitchen table with Sorcha in his arms, bottle-feeding her with ease. It wasn't that she worried about his ability to take care of a baby, as he had proven that over and over during the past three months, but a _magical_ baby was more than even parents born to magic could handle on occasion. He instead scoffed as he placed the bottle back down on the table and wiped some formula from their daughter's face.

"Her magic outbursts have been fewer and fewer as of late, and someone's got to be the breadwinner around here," he said. Malcolm leaned into a kiss from his wife and copped a feel before she left his side, which she gave him another peck on the lips for. "Set fire to their tears, darling."

"You know it," she grinned. Clara then went into the chimney and vanished into the Floo Network, leaving her husband and daughter to their own devices.

"Alright Sorcha," he chuckled, patting the baby on her back. "Let's prove to Mam that we're a team."

The baby spit up rainbow-swirls on his shoulder in response; it was going to be a long day.

* * *

Clara sat at her desk completely dumbfounded. Even _with_ the assistant she had technically-poached from her husband running her office while she was spending time with her newborn, things were worse than she thought. The aide standing in front of her was attempting to back away despite the fact that she was having none of it.

" _What on_ _ **Earth**_ does MPM Granger think she's _doing_ releasing all this information like this?" Clara hissed. "I understand our transparency policy dictates that we shouldn't hide what we're doing, and I'm not about to hide like a child who kicked a football into a statue, but she's releasing **_sensitive_** _ **information**_! Does she not realize this?!"

"It's just a planning committee's minutes…"

"…a planning committee's minutes in the early stages! You do realize that most of the suggestions written down in this are a load of bunk, right? No sane person working within the ministry knows that we cannot address merging parchment recycling with Muggle paper products by simply dropping it off at Squibs' residences without any sort of magic-stripping, but _that's what's in the minutes because they have to write_ _ **everything**_ _ **down**_ and now it looks like it's a serious suggestion! There are actual people out there who don't understand what bloody sarcasm is, you know that, right?!"

"I… umm…"

" _NOT EVERYONE IS BLOODY INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO UNDERSTANDS SARCASM!_ " she repeated.

"Ha… must be a dull life…"

"Get out of my sight or you are going to find yourself unable to do anything but drink from a ruddy straw for the next two months." At that, the aide skittered out of the room, followed by Clara adding, "It's not the hormones settling down either!" When the aide was clear, Sam came into the office with a cuppa and some biscuits, placing them down on the desk.

"I told you it was bad," she said, giving a sympathetic frown. "Arseholes will at least listen to you—for me it was like talking to a wall."

"It almost makes me wish for a good-old-fashioned Muggle-style stabbing in the middle of the atrium," Clara groused. She took the tea and was about to sip from it when the phone sitting on her desk rang. Instead of putting her tea down, she held the receiver between her ear and shoulder. "Oswald speaking."

" _Clara, she's fucking doing the thing again_." **Malcolm**.

"Which thing, dear?" she asked dully. "Sorcha does _plenty_ of things that you've never seen a baby do before." Clara glanced up at Sam and they exchanged amused expressions—having a landline installed in the office was going to be worth it in calls from Malcolm alone.

" _The, um, one where she's floating, but she's also spinning around like she's a damned spit of shawarma meat_."

"Is she in front of you?"

" _Yeah…?_ "

"Pluck her from the air—she'll be fine and you'll be fine."

" _Not entirely sure about that_ ," he replied. " _Pretty sure m'eyes are a different color than when you left and my cuppas keep on turning into frogs_."

"You were the one who said you could handle it," she reminded him.

" _Yeah, but I didn't sign up for the fucking Exorcist_ …"

"…then I'm going to stop in Diagon Alley on my way home and see what I can do about getting you a Kwikspell course. They make some where all the magic necessary is in a disposable wand for assisting Squibs and Muggles these days." The only thing she heard was disgruntled muttering, which caused her to laugh. "See you after work. Hugs and kisses."

" _Yeah. Bye_."

The call ended and Clara placed the phone receiver on its base with a smirk. "It feels nice to be the one on this end."

"That it is," Sam agreed.


	21. The Number 10 Boggart, September 2006

A/N: This takes place in September 2006, before Malcolm/Clara becomes a thing.

* * *

Margaret Thatcher was in a cupboard at Number 10.

Now of course this was impossible, as not only could no one remember when it was she last stepped foot inside the complex, but it was a very well-known fact that she was in America at that very moment—there was news footage and everything. It was bad enough that she wasn't even wholly fair game anymore thanks to be an addled old broad, but appearing in two places at once? It made Malcolm cringe.

"Sam, get someone disposable from the Statute; I don't want you dealing with this," he said quietly. Due to a series of events that involved sending higher-ups here and there, he was the senior-most Party member there at that moment, meaning that he felt obligated to investigate himself.

"Boggarts are fairly easy," she replied, walking alongside him in the corridor. "They were one of the creatures we covered in the first few years at Hogwarts…"

"You said it _sounded_ like a boggart, but I don't trust it," he said. "It could be tricking us—doppelgangers are more dangerous, and can shapeshift too, yeah?"

"Alright, _you've_ been reading too many faerie stories meant to scare the living shit out of Muggles," Sam chuckled. "I'll pop on over to the Ministry and see who I can wrangle up. Just be careful, yeah?"

"Of course," he promised. They parted ways at the fork in the corridor, with Malcolm going one way and Sam another. He stormed his way over towards where the bat was supposedly slinking around, only to find that there was a small crowd of staffers gathered around. "Alright, who's the sad fuck who thought he saw Ol' Maggie?"

"We all did, in there, during a meeting," one of the onlookers admitted. "W-we thought…"

"Alright, it's probably some arsewipe who gets their fucking jibblies by scaring the shit out of others—go find a spare conference room. I'll take care of this."

"…but…"

"I said ' _I'll take care of this_ '; do you understand the fucking English language?"

The staffer squeaked and skittered off, followed by the remainder of the meeting participants. Once they were around the corner, Malcolm pushed forward into the room and shut the door behind him. It seemed like a normal-enough conference room—a table that was too big for it, chairs that were just shy of being comfortable, inoffensive art on the walls… normal. Average. Nothing haunted or Thatchery about it.

There was only one extra door in the room that could have led to a cupboard, and that was decidedly shut. Putting his hands on his hips, Malcolm slowly spun around and examined the room. Nothing…

 _Click._

When his back was fulling facing the cupboard, the door opened, causing the media man to freeze. It was all about first impressions—he would turn around and go straight into Bollocking Mode at whatever fucker decided it was cute to imitate the Ghosts of Number 10 Past before they were even ghosts yet, and they would break and he would have them kicked the fuck out. No—he'd toss them out himself, dragging them to the front door by the ear. People still did that, didn't they? If not they should. He spun around, brows furrowed and scowl in a full-scale attack, only to have his voice leave him.

It wasn't a poorly-made-up former PM staring him down from across the room; it was _himself_. Technically, anyhow; the face was there—the one that looked so much like his da at that age—except it was older, greyer, gaunt even. The grey suit the Other Malcolm wore hung poorly on his thin frame, suggesting severe malnourishment, and the way he stood was hunched in something Malcolm could only see as defeat.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, his eyes bulging in confusion. "That's a pretty good impression, but I hate to tell you that I'm not that fucking grey yet."

"Yo, Tucker, you know what the fuck's happening: I am you," the Other Malcolm said. His voice sent a sharp chill down Malcolm's spine—dead-on.

"Fuck no you're not."

"I am—Sam gave me one last favor. Time travel is possible with her lot, but it's a closely guarded secret. Fixed points, people have to die while cunts live, you know."

"Yeah, she told me that." He looked at the boggart, doppelganger, his future self, whatever the fuck it was, and frowned. "Then why are you here?"

"As a warning," Other Malcolm said gravely. "Ten years—things will be fucked up beyond repair. Everything you've worked for, everything _I've worked for_ , will have been undone. Not even a fucking thank you. Cast aside, alone—you will be worth less than Her Majesty's shit."

"Lies—if you really are me, then I know your intimidation tactics," Malcolm hissed. He could feel the vein in his temple start to throb as he stalked over to the imposter. "You can't fucking touch me."

"Tash won't know you—your own niece will hear of your demise and not realize it's her uncle."

"She's barely two fucking years old; you're lucky if a nip knows their own reflection at that age!"

"Mary will stop letting you see her soon. The only light in your life will be snuffed out."

" _Liar_."

"You will be chewed up, spat out, fucked over and over, and they'll make you ask for more."

" _Impossible_."

"I'm sick—the same that got Da—and no one will care. It could take weeks before they find me."

"Don't you fucking _dare_!"

Suddenly, the Other Malcolm grinned, dried up, and disintegrated into dust, making the real Malcolm jump in surprise. He snapped his attention over towards the door, seeing Clara and Sam standing there, the former brandishing her wand while the latter immediately rushed to his side once the boggart was clear.

"That did not look very careful to me," Sam scolded, more out of worry than anger. She had him sit down in one of the chairs and looked him directly in the eyes. "Are you alright? It didn't rattle you too much, did it?"

"N-No," he lied. "It taps into a sod's worst fear, yeah?"

"Yes; if it had caught onto our presence before I cast the spell, it would have taken turns between us," Clara explained. "Who was that? A brother? Father?"

"Me." He debated on telling them, risking looking like a paranoid fool, but the concern on their faces made him think better of it. "A version of me without my niece, my career in shambles, dying early and alone—my fucking worst nightmare."

"Such a fear is valid," Clara said. "I've seen a boggart turn into things far pettier—you're head's on straight if you fear that sort of an end."

"M'sister wouldn't do that to me; Mary knows better," he frowned. "That wank she married, maybe, but not her."

"Here, take this," Sam ordered. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small vial, which she made her boss drink. "It's a pick-me-up brewed especially for boggarts—they sell some at a kiosk in the Ministry of Magic's main lobby."

"Thanks," he said. As the liquid went down his throat and pooled in his stomach, he felt his confidence return and the morbid thoughts get shoved towards the back of his mind. "Think you can nab a couple every now and then for tactical purposes?"

"Ah, no," Clara interjected. "None of that—won't work unless there's a boggart around, and this one was a rogue that slipped by the wards. It looks like we're going to have to renew them tonight after-hours to prevent an incident like this from happening again."

"I'll make sure to alert the night guards," Sam said. She then patted Malcolm on the shoulder, giving him a smile. "Ready to go tear some MPs to shreds?"

"You bet."


	22. Bitch of a Business Trip, 2011, Contd

A/N: The following chapter takes place directly after chapter thirteen (The Bitch of A Business Trip), which is in early 2011, and contains backstory that reaches into 1998.

* * *

It was late that night, after he had toweled them off and initiated a tender shag session that was cut short when she began sobbing, that Malcolm was laying in bed, wide-awake and staring at the ceiling. One arm was wrapped around Clara, who was using his shoulder as a pillow, while he cracked his knuckles on the other.

' _Azkaban is too generous for them_ ,' he thought darkly. ' _There must be something I can do to make their lives worse. I have the law on my side—law, spin, smoke and mirrors… they deserve to be fucking_ _ **miserable**_.'

A thought then crossed his mind. ' _I can't make it look like simply a personal vendetta, or else it won't go through. Maybe there's some Muggles that were caught up in the line of fire, or some damage was done that couldn't be reversed before the Mugs saw it, or_ …'

"Malcolm…?"

"Go back to sleep, darling," he murmured. "I'm just thinking about work—Nicola's gearing up to propose this new education policy that's going to fuck everything up even _further_ , so I have to find a way to—"

"Stop lying," Clara said. She balled up the hand resting on his chest and pressed herself in closer to his body. "Your body is too tense for just some barmy policy of Nicola's."

He considered lying again, though thought the better of it. "I want to make those shitstains suffer."

" _Malcolm_ …"

"Clara, listen," he said. He slid out from under her and rolled onto his side so that he could look her in the eyes. "I've never felt this _angry_ before. This tops the time Tash came home from school after a scrap that some older kid started; she was black and blue for weeks and I was ready to _end_ the cunts who thought it was a good idea to teach their child it was alright to beat up on another. It's like this is a whole other level."

"Then do both of us a favor and take a step back," she insisted. "I told you Azkaban was taking care of those idiots; I don't want them to have to take care of you too."

"They won't, I promise," he assured her. "I just feel like there's something a little extra I can do to tack onto their sentences—make their lives in Azkaban a bit more miserable."

"Malcolm, _don't_ ," Clara ordered. She sat up and glared down at her fiancée, decidedly adamant about the situation. "The last thing I need is for you to get mixed up in wizarding politics more than needing to know what to tell Muggle Britain. If you value our relationship, I want you to drop this right here and now."

"…but…"

"No buts; _drop it_." She got out of bed and reached for her robe, tossing it on hastily. "I do not need you throwing yourself headlong into something that could get you _killed_ or worse. How good of an uncle would you be to Natasha if you were kidnapped and _Cruciatus_ ed over and over again until you lost your mind?! How good of a husband would you be to me if you couldn't remember my face?! How good of a job would you do for the nation if your ability to speak in the English language was replaced with French?! You think you know what you're dealing with, but you're not! You're out of your league and I don't want you to find out the hard way because all it means is me one day going to identify a stinking, bloody _corpse_!"

Clara stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Malcolm flopped into the bed and grunted sourly; this was the exact opposite of what he had wanted to do. He waited a few minutes and then rolled out of bed himself, slipping into his pants before following his fiancée downstairs. She was in the kitchen with a cuppa, looking as though she was coming out of a hefty cry.

"Hey," he said from the doorway. "Can I come in?" She nodded silently, allowing him entry. A cuppa of his own floated to the spot at the table where he sat down and he was assured she didn't hate him. "Sorry I was being a single-minded cunt; old habits die excruciatingly hard."

"Just do me a favor, yeah? Don't _ever_ think you can fuck over a Dark Wizard or Witch. You can have a shout at people who screw up like Muggles do—yell at them all you like—but the boundary you haven't crossed yet is there for a reason."

"You weren't yelling at just me upstairs, were you?" he wondered. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. "It's okay—you can tell me."

She paused for a moment in reflection before sniffling, readying herself. "The Second Great Wizarding War ended on the grounds of Hogwarts. It was a terrible, horrific thing."

"You've told me this before," he replied. "It's why you're a certified Auror, and why they let you leave school early to work in the Ministry, and why…"

"…why my boyfriend at the time died," she finished. "Danny was a year older than me—Muggle-born for all we knew, since he grew up in a children's home and the First Wizarding War didn't claim the life of someone named Pink—and he was determined to not let the Death Eaters get the best of the school. As far as Dumbledore's Army was concerned, he was the perfect soldier. He went on food raids to the kitchens, helped train the younger kids in self-defense, collected intelligence; he was even one of the ones who went out around the country finding Muggle-borns that couldn't defend themselves and smuggled them into the safe places in the castle…"

"Sounds like you dated a fucking saint," Malcolm nodded solemnly, no malice in his language.

"They killed him during the Battle of Hogwarts," Clara continued. "He was tortured and killed right before my eyes and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I tried to go after them, but one died in the fighting and the other is most certainly in Azkaban. Even now I have to resist going and looking up the list of inmates and their crimes because it will change nothing."

"…and you don't want me to be another Danny," he figured. "None of you knew what you were getting into then, did you?"

"Some of us did, but very few knew the true scope of things," she recalled. "He told me it was okay to mourn—five minutes a day—but to get on with my life and to not let his death stop me from moving on and having a life. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure I would until I met you."

"Wait… he _told_ you? How could he if he was dead?"

"Danny became one of the castle ghosts; people who die with unfinished business often become ghosts associated with their place of death," she explained. "He wanted to help others, as many as he could, and I hear he's one of the more benevolent spectres wandering around."

"That sounds like a better reason than most," he agreed. Malcolm let go of Clara's hand and placed his on the back of her head, stroking her hair. "I promise I'll step back when it comes to the magical cunts with an unsavory agenda. The ministerial cock-ups are fair game, but I'll call in you or Sammy if it's something more on the dangerous end of things."

"Thanks," she sniffled. "I don't date idiots, but, there are some things that even clever people don't figure out until too late…"

"…or they let their emotions blind them; I know," he replied.

They finished their tea quietly, holding hands all the while. When they were done, Malcolm carried Clara back to bed, as he had earlier in the night, except this time all they did was snuggle close and go to sleep. This was something to overcome, and they both knew as they laid in one another's arms, that they not only could, but _would_ , end up stronger for.


	23. Sorcha Comes Home, June 2013

A/N: Got a prompt about Sorcha coming home from the hospital, so yay we get more baby time, which turned into fluff, angst, and backstory. Takes place June, 2013.

* * *

After a customary overnight stay in the hospital for observation, Clara and Sorcha Oswald were released from St. Mungo's to go home together for the first time. They traveled home by Floo Network, being met by Malcolm the moment Clara stepped out of the fireplace. He wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter, giving them both kisses on the forehead before leading them over to the couch, the adults snuggling up soon as they sat down.

"Look at her, Clara—she's beautiful," Malcolm marveled. "This little darling is going to break hearts and dash dreams one day. Fuckers don't know what's coming."

"She's going to be a good girl and do as Mum and Dad say until that's not the right thing for her anymore; that's what she's going to do," she corrected. Clara fussed over the newborn in her arms and sighed heavily. "This is the easy part—it all gets worse from here."

"At least I have fair warning when it comes to needing to practice my speech about catching her wandering off towards the village at night," he chuckled.

"…or turning another student into a ferret."

"…or cussing out a teacher."

"…or sneaking into the boys' dorms."

"…fuck, don't bring boys into this, not yet." Malcolm laughed as he kissed his wife, simply glad that he could do so. "Don't bring girls into this either, not until I'm good and ready."

"Whatever happens, it won't be when either of us are ready," Clara noted. She eased the wand from her pocket and swished it in the air, causing things in the kitchen to start clamoring about. "She's our daughter—it would be a shame if she made anything easy."

"That's the thing lots of people don't think about: babies become children and children become rotten teenagers," he mused. "Our Sorcha won't be rotten, will she?"

"I don't know… should ask Dad how I was, and maybe ask your mum about you. That should give us an idea."

"I had a punk phase, Clara—we don't bring that into the equation."

"The thought of you with cherry-red hair and an earring is still hilarious to me," she giggled. The motion of that woke up Sorcha, who immediately began to wail loudly. A bottle already filled with warm formula floated into the room, allowing Malcolm to snatch it out of the air as he was being passed the crying babe, as it was unofficially deemed his turn.

"Such a wee, precious thing," he murmured. "I'm so glad I'm here for you, sweetheart. This da of yours was a right old cunt in his previous life, but now I've got you as well as your mam, and I couldn't be more proud."

"Save the sappy sentimental stuff when it's just the two of you watching daytime soaps," Clara teased. She stood and went over to a cupboard, where she pulled out a cloth nappy to place on her husband's shoulder. "If only the old crowd could see you now."

"Fuck, if only those Inquiry sods could see me," he snorted. "They seemed like the sort to change their mind over the scene of an old new dad with his baby girl—what do you think?"

"I think they saw a magically-manipulated image and that was it," she replied. She held the bottle as he burped the baby, with half of the formula that Sorcha had suckled down ending up on her father's shoulder. Handing back the bottle, she sat back down on the couch, taking in the scene before her with a quiet sort of understanding. "You weren't kidding when you said you remembered how to do this."

"Tash was the light of my life for so long that her cousin is going to be glad I got all the practice in on her," he said. "I just… kinda of wish she was here right now."

"We'll see her next month, and it's probably better for Sorcha anyhow," she assured. She stroked his hair, all sticky-uppy and fluffy from a lack of tending in the past month or so, and smiled sadly. "There are plenty of people who I wish were here."

"Your mam… my da…"

"I was talking about _living people_ , but yes, they are definitely a given." Clara rested her head on the back of the couch and exhaled in thought. "What was he like? Your dad?"

"My da Duncan was… a bit _milder_ than I ever have been, even though he was a media man himself," Malcolm recalled. "He would have loved his granddaughters… would have loved you… and him being alive would have likely made me different."

"How so?"

"I was just out of university when he got sick, and watching him die while there was nothing I could do made me angry." He burped his daughter again with everything staying down this time. "There were things I should have said and didn't, and things I shouldn't've said that I did, and it got me clawing and scrambling to make something of myself so that I wouldn't die like he did. I got mean and nasty, started to swear and drink, and while I know I could have made it had he came through, at the same time I know I wouldn't have been so fucked up along the way. Two years and I'll be older than he ever was—fifty-four shouldn't be that fucking old, but it is for the men in my family. Sorcha will have her da longer than I had him, and at least that's the silver lining in all of it."

"Oh Malcolm," Clara frowned. She removed the cloth nappy from his shoulder and hugged him tightly, allowing his head to rest between her breasts even though they were sore and sensitive. He sniffled in an attempt to not cry—fuck, he hated crying. "My bet is he would be so proud of you right now… you have a family, you did your best in your career, and you survived them chewing you up and spitting you out like some piece of old, stale chewing gum. Hell, my mum would be proud of me just for surviving the Second Wizarding War, let alone achieving all this. I'm going to be older than she ever was as well, and do you want to know what that means?"

Malcolm lifted his head and gazed up at her, his eyes red and puffy. "What?"

"I'm living not just for myself, but her as well," she said. "I will do all the things she never got to do, and I am going to appreciate it so much more than I would have before, because I know how precious life is." She placed a hand on Sorcha's head and draped her other arm around his shoulders. "We are going to enjoy this, simply because we can."

"That's… that's good," he croaked.

With a final burping, Sorcha was done eating for the time being and her parents were able to put her down for her first nap at home. They took one as well, taking advantage of the quiet while they could, holding one another silently as they both laid in bed with their limbs entwined. Malcolm was the one who fell asleep first, hugging Clara tightly against his chest, while she was lulled to sleep by the sound of his steady, heavy breathing. They were going to have a better life than their parents had—that was at least for certain.


	24. Daddy, Moody, and Sorcha, December 2017

A/N: We've got a bit of a weird time jump here, to December 2017, so get ready for spoilers and lots of unanswered questions.

* * *

Mummy's work, according to Sorcha Oswald, was a very interesting place full of things that she never really knew existed. Sometimes she got to go in with Mummy because she wanted her to see more people doing magic, since Daddy couldn't use magic as a Muggle, but today _everyone_ was there. Daddy had said it was an "open house", but there was no house to open, meaning Sorcha was very, very confused.

"Now stick close, girls," Daddy said. He had Catriona in one arm while he held onto Sorcha with his free hand, Natasha trailing close behind. She had come into Blackpool on the train a couple days ago from Hogwarts and was staying at Raven's Rook for Christmas, meaning she got to come along too, which was extra-fun. Daddy had put them all in his car early in the morning and drove them down to London and after squeezing into the police box in the alleyway, they were walking through the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, where bunches of other people were wandering about doing Christmas-y things.

"Uncle Malc, where's Aunt Clara's office?" Natasha wondered. "She might be there, since she had to work late last night."

"I think I remember where it is, as long as the damn building didn't move it on me again," Daddy replied. He led them over towards a staircase, which they immediately started to go up. "Last time I went in the elevator, Cat puked all over me, so no chances this time."

"Ugh, gross," Natasha scowled. Once they got up to the correct floor, she picked up Sorcha and began to carry her on her shoulders. There was hardly anyone in the corridor and it made Natasha worry. "Are you sure this is the right floor?"

"'Course it is—ah! Here's her office!" Daddy veered into an office almost at random, but sure enough, it was _definitely_ Mummy's office. The drawings she did for her were on the walls and there were photographs of all of them on the desk. He put Catriona and her bag down on the couch and frowned at the empty room. "She should be here… alright, Tash, you're in charge, yeah? I'm gonna go see where she's gone off to."

"Alright Uncle Malc," Natasha said. She put Sorcha down on the floor and sat next to Catriona, making sure she didn't crawl off the edge, while Daddy went to go look for Mummy. Once Daddy was gone, all the portraits in the office began to whisper about the three girls amongst one another.

"Hello!" Sorcha said cheerily. She vaulted herself onto a chair and looked at a portrait, putting her hands on either side to keep herself steady. "I'm Sorcha Oswald and I'm four and a half! I haven't seen you before! This is my mummy's office!"

"Well now, I finally get to meet the famous Sorcha," the man in the frame grinned. Natasha glanced over, saw the mangled face that was so close to her cousin's and grimaced.

"Sorcha, don't talk to strange portraits," she ordered.

"…and what are you being such a jessie about?" the portrait sassed back. "I'm a painting!"

"You're a strange man talking to my four-year-old cousin!"

"Four and a _half_ , is what the lass said," the portrait corrected. Sorcha giggled, finding Natasha's outrage funny. "The name's Alastor Moody, but everyone calls me 'Mad-Eye'."

"Oh, I wouldn't be able to tell why," Natasha deadpanned. Catriona gurgled in her arms, drawing her attention away with a nappy change.

"Was this your office before it was Mummy's, Mr. Mad-Eye?" Sorcha wondered.

"Nah—your mam's got some ol' cunt's space. Don't remember his name; just remember I didn't like him."

"What's a _cunt_?" Sorcha asked, tilting her head curiously.

"It's what you call a bloke that's been a right tit," Moody explained. He saw the blank expression on the girl's face and nodded, knowing he needed to try again. "You know how lads are dumb sometimes?"

"Boys are dumb _lots_ of times."

"Yeah—when they're dumb, yeh call 'em cunts, it means they're only smart enough to think about them and that's it."

"Shit…! Sorcha, don't repeat that word!" Natasha gasped, having just put Catriona's tights back in place. "Your dad hears you say that and he's gonna kill me!"

"When I hear her say what?" Daddy asked. He was standing in the doorway, obviously having not found Mummy.

"The painting was teaching her how to swear while I was busy with Cat!" Natasha claimed. Daddy went over towards the portrait, watching Sorcha crouch down guiltily.

"I didn't know it was a bad word," she said.

"Moody! How've you been?" Daddy grinned. "I'd hug yeh, but dimensions and all."

"Not bad—feeling a wee bit oily, but I think that's the weather," Moody said. "The older lass's right though: I was telling the bairn here the importance of words. Now she can call a lad a cunt when he's being one."

"Cunt? Really? I'd go with tit, personally," Daddy shrugged. "Boys at her age are more tittish than cuntish."

"Uncle Malc!" Natasha hissed. "We're not supposed to swear in front of Sorcha!"

"Since when are you so clean-mouthed?" he teased.

"…since Aunt Clara said very specifically ' _no swearing in front of Sorcha_ ' the other day!"

"Sorchie, what do I say about Daddy Words?"

"I can't use 'em until I'm a teenager!" Sorcha replied cheerily. Natasha groaned and sank into the couch, her baby cousin beginning to poke her in the face and babble in curiosity. If anyone was going to get blamed for this, it wasn't going to be her.

* * *

Christmas was saved, metaphorically speaking. The crisis over and spun away—there would be no international debacle concerning the Peruvian Minister of Magic and some blast-ended skrewts in Staffordshire that ended in a scheduled monument going up in flames. She didn't even know all the facts of the matter, nor did she care (and it was probably all made up anyhow), because all Clara Oswald wanted was to have a relaxing Christmas holiday with her husband, daughters, and niece.

Heading up to her office, the Dark Princess of Spin went to go file the remainder of her papers in their respective filing cabinets. She walked into the room to find Malcolm and Sorcha sitting together by a very specific portrait, while Natasha had Catriona sitting on the floor over on the other side of the room, playing with some toys.

"Go suck a cock, you bent wank!" her elder daughter giggled at the portrait. Clara immediately knew which portrait it was that Sorcha was talking to, and frowned as she cleared her throat. The little girl stared at her with wide eyes, terrified that she was caught.

"Malcolm, what did our daughter just say?"

"Moody and I were just teaching her what _not_ to say, isn't that right?" Malcolm replied. He turned towards the portrait to discover it was an empty frame and hissed. "Fuck—get back here you git! You started it!"

"I told you she'd walk in at the worst possible time," Natasha said.

"I'm wondering if someone needs to drive home by himself tonight," Clara wondered. She picked up Sorcha and made the girl look in her eyes. "Now, what is going to happen if I catch you saying such things?"

"I bite soap," Sorcha sniffled.

"Good; now come on girls, pack up. Malcolm, we're going home," Clara said. She glanced at her husband and saw the guilty look on his face, refusing to take pity on him. After putting down Sorcha so she could help clean up toys, the Director of Communications leaned in towards Malcolm and whispered. "Good thing the couch is comfortable, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he muttered back. "I fucked this one up."

"As long as you know that; now let's go. I want to get the girls back home by dinner." She pecked him on the cheek and gave him a flirty wink. "Once you've learned your lesson, it'll be time for some Christmas cheer."

He perked up a bit at that—at least there was a wee bit of hope at the end of the tunnel.


	25. Sorcha's Sister, June 2015-22 Oct 2016

A/N: The following takes place June 2015, June 2016, and today, 22 October 2016.

* * *

Everything was quiet as the little family laid together in bed, as was customary after the end of a long business trip. Sorcha was snuggled comfortably between her parents, fast asleep while the adults talked in hushed whispers, barely loud enough for one another to hear.

"You need to stop getting sent off for the tiniest of shit," Malcolm said. "One day, our daughter won't know you, and it will fucking break both our hearts."

"That won't happen… you're worrying too much," Clara replied. She stroked their daughter's hair and watched the little girl sleep peacefully, unaware of what was going on around her. "You know… that just brings me to something I've been wanting to talk with you for a while now."

"Lay it on me, darling."

"How are you doing with Sorcha? She's not been too much of a hassle for you, has she?"

"She has her days, just like any toddler, but she's our bairn—there's gonna be fight in her." He glanced at her from across the pillow, knitting his brows in thought. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I was wondering how you would feel about being on nappy duty again," she said.

"Are you…?"

"No; this is me asking if you want to start trying for another child," she said. "Sorcha came because we didn't give a shit and decided to let nature take its course, but I think giving her a little sibling should be something we do soon if we do so at all. So, do you?"

"Obviously not now, but you are going to soon discover that you do not need to ask permission for a shag, no matter the consequences," he grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "Before I knew Sorcha existed, I thought I was going to die a cunt without a legacy, that I was going to head to prison and get out after you hit menopause, but now…" He placed his hand on the one she was using to fuss over their daughter's hair. "…now I have you both, as well as my freedom, and I'm more than happy to take up any offer to increase the happiness you two give me by adding another wee one to the family."

"No backing out now, Mr. Oswald," Clara giggled. "I don't want to hear you complaining about nappies and bottle feedings and spit-up in a year."

"You know me—I plan on it."

* * *

It took longer than the couple had originally anticipated, and early the following year, Clara discovered she was pregnant again. She and Malcolm were overjoyed, though they wondered what to do about the child they already had and how to prepare her for the one who was coming. They waited until the day before Sorcha's third birthday before sitting her down for a talk—the baby was almost showing and there was little time to waste so they could properly prepare for the incoming arrival.

"Mummy, Daddy, am I in trouble?" Sorcha wondered. She had been called downstairs in the middle of playtime, over to the kitchen where the tea service was preparing itself.

"No, not at all," Malcolm assured her. "Mam and I need to have a talk with you—things are going to change around here really soon."

"Change? What do you mean by that, Daddy?"

"What Daddy means is that we've got something a little extra special to tell you about what we're going to do between your birthday and Halloween this year," Clara explained.

"Why Halloween?"

"Someone special is coming just before then, and we need to do plenty of things to prepare," Malcolm said. "We're going to paint one of the spare rooms, maybe yours too if you want it, and decorate and make everything comfortable for when they arrive."

"Who's coming?" Sorcha asked. "Is it Granddad? Granny?"

"Nope—they might not be very fun at first, but they will be one day, and for a long time to come," Malcolm told her.

"Who?!"

"Your new baby sibling," Clara said, having had enough of the tension. "You're going to be a big sister the week before Halloween."

"Really…?" the girl said, tilting her head. "How come your tummy isn't big?"

"The baby is still really little, but soon they'll start to make my tummy big," Clara said. "How do you feel about this, Sorcha? Being a big sister is a lot of hard work, and you are going to need to help Daddy with taking care of the baby while I'm at work."

"Will the baby be a boy or a girl?"

"We don't know—the only way we'll know is when they're born."

"Will they be able to use magic like me or will they be a Muggle like Daddy?"

"Only time will tell for that."

"How did the baby happen?"

"Mam and Dad did a very special sort of spell—one even Muggles can do," Malcolm cut in. "You need to be able to control magic a bit better before we can tell you, so my guess is your first year of Hogwarts or so."

"Oh, okay. Can I say hello to the baby?"

"Of course you can, sweetie," Clara said. She gave her husband a worried look as their daughter rounded the table and she shifted so the girl could see her stomach.

"How do you know the baby's there, Mummy?"

"I can feel them move," she said. "You moved a lot too when you were in my tummy."

"That's neat." Sorcha then slid her hand underneath the fabric of her mother's blouse, touching her skin lightly. "Hello, Baby. I'm your sister, Sorcha. We're gonna play one day, okay?"

"I think they'll like that very much," Malcolm said, patting her on the head. Sorcha grinned up at him, happy as could be—a baby was supposed to be fun, or that's what she was told. Being a big sister was going to be _fun_.

* * *

The day the baby came wasn't very fun, according to Sorcha Oswald.

First off, she had to go to Granddad's. While Granddad was pretty fun, Gran wasn't at all. Sorcha had to go shopping with her for things for the baby, like formula powder and nappies and things that she and Daddy already _bought_ but weren't at Granddad's anymore. She wasn't allowed to do anything magic because otherwise Gran would freak out, and everything was just _boring_. There weren't any good toys or good snacks and the house smelled like kitty farts.

It was Saturday though, and at least she got to watch telly until her favorite channel went off air, so that made it a bit better (Gran was visiting a friend a few doors down). Sorcha laid on the sitting room floor, watching the Pontipines board the Ninky Nonk, when Granddad came into the room all smiles.

"Hey there, Big Sister—your dad just called and we can go to the hospital to see your mum and the baby."

"We can?!"

"We can," he repeated.

"Come on—let's get a jumper on you and we'll get going."

Jumpers on, booster seat locked into place, and soon Sorcha and Granddad were on the way to the hospital. Granddad almost missed the exit, but Sorcha knew it was because he was Muggle and they were going to a magic hospital, so she made sure to remind him when to turn off the main road. The building they pulled up to looked like an old, spooky, run-down stately home from the outside, except for the fact that Daddy was standing outside and waving at them.

"Thanks for keeping her, Dave," Daddy said as Granddad got out of the car to get Sorcha. "If it wasn't so graphic, I would've said you should've been there—Clara gave the sodding Healer scales and gills like a fish."

"Sounds about right," Granddad laughed. He let Sorcha run up to Daddy, who picked her up and carried her into the building. As they went past what looked like a beaten-down door, the three passed through the magic barrier and into the hospital proper. Daddy brought Sorcha and Granddad up the stairs and down a couple corridors, where Mummy was sitting up in a bed, looking very sweaty and tired as she fed a baby from a bottle.

"Mummy!" Sorcha cried happily. Daddy put her down next to Mummy on the bed and she gave her a hug.

"Were you a good girl for Granddad and Gran?" she asked.

"Yeah! I did my best, even when Gran was being a bore."

"Then I think it's time for you to meet your new little sister, Catriona," Mummy chuckled. She tilted the baby so that Sorcha could see. Catriona's eyes were closed, her face was red, and she looked ready to cry at any moment.

"…this is my new sister…?"

"You looked a lot like she did the day you were born," Daddy said. He took the bottle from Mummy so that she could burp Catriona. "Would you like to hold her, Sorchie?"

"Okay."

Daddy had Sorcha sit in a nearby chair as he took the baby from Mummy. He then carefully brought Catriona over and knelt in front of the chair. "Just like we practiced on the dolly, okay?"

"Uh-huh."

Once she was in Sorcha's arms, Catriona finally opened her eyes, looking up at her sister for the first time. They stared at one another until the baby went to sleep, which was only about a minute.

"You were right, Daddy—Catriona isn't very much fun right now," Sorcha frowned, wrinkling her nose. "Granddad can hold her now."

"Don't mind if I do," Granddad said. He took the baby from Sorcha, which freed her up to climb back into bed with Mummy, curling up into her side.

"When will Catriona be fun?" she asked.

"In time," Mummy replied. She stroked Sorcha's hair and kissed the top of her head. "Don't worry—she'll be fun before you know it."

It wasn't a very fun day overall, but Sorcha knew it was very important, because that was the day she met her sister for the first time, and that was what was supposed to count.


	26. Catriona Comes Home, October 2016

A/N: The following takes place late October, 2016.

* * *

It was a couple days after Catriona was born before she was allowed to come home by the Healers. Healthy and alert—although small—she got to travel home by car, as her father and sister were there to pick her and her mother up just outside the hospital. She was gently secured into the car carrier next to her sister's booster seat and they left for home together.

"Mummy? Why can't we use the Floo Network?" Sorcha wondered.

"…because Daddy thought it would be nice to take a drive, is all," Clara replied. In reality, it was because her husband wanted to be the one to bring his family home, not allow magic to do the work for him. He could do it, so he did.

"We don't often take drives, so what do you say?" Malcolm mentioned. He turned down a lane that was wedged between open hills of pasture and a small wood. "I think it would be nice to show Cat around the place—let her see what she's getting into."

"…but Daddy, Catriona's sleeping."

"You know what I mean," he said. Instead of turning off the road towards where Raven's Rook was hidden away, he kept going towards town. "I want to show off my girls and let the world know how lucky I am."

"You're silly, Daddy," Sorcha giggled. Clara placed her hand on the one Malcolm was using for the shift, letting him know that at least she was fine with it.

Riding into town, the family stopped at a café first for some lunch, then popped into the grocery store to figure out what they were going to make for dinner. They showed off Catriona to some of the locals who fawned over her—making Malcolm and Clara both beam in joy—and made their way home. Soon as the car passed through the magical barrier keeping Raven's Rook private, Catriona began to wail loudly, causing her older sister to clap her hands over her ears.

"Mummy! Daddy! Catriona's being loud!" Sorcha shouted.

"Let the shitstorm begin," Malcolm mumbled under his breath. Time to get on with life.

He parked the car and released Sorcha from her booster seat, allowing her to zoom off towards the garden. Clara took Catriona, carrier and all, and the parents brought her into the house. A lot of rocking the newborn in their arms and lullabies were involved, but they eventually got her to quiet down to a tiny whimpering.

"She must be hypersensitive to magic," Clara supposed. She sat down with her daughter on the couch in the sitting room, feeding the girl with a bottle and hoping she didn't break out into sobs again. "I've known people to feel a sensation when entering a magic field—she just isn't old enough to know what it is yet."

"I hope that's what it is and she gets used to it quick instead of being a crier," Malcolm scowled. "Tash was a crier for a wee bit; fucking drove everyone up a fucking wall."

"Maybe she's practicing being like Daddy," she sniped playfully. Her husband flicked his middle finger at her in jest before plopping down on the couch next to them. He put an arm around her waist and squeezed gently. "You know, it doesn't feel like it was that long ago we brought Sorcha home."

"It doesn't feel like I first held their cousin twelve years ago," he reminded her. "A bairn don't give a flying shit if the adults around them want a wee babe—they grow up as fast as they damn well feel like."

"That's true," she agreed. "It won't be long before we're breaking up fights over toys."

"…or fights over boys."

"Fuck…"

" _Now_ who's starting to sound like me?" Malcolm grinned. He kissed his wife, glad that Catriona had fallen asleep mid-feeding, as that meant that the two of them were very close to being alone, until…

"Mummy! Daddy! I'm hungry!" Sorcha declared as she ran into the house. She stopped dead in her tracks as she watched her parents kiss, scrunching up her nose dramatically. "Eww, gross."

"Oh yeah, that's right, we have another one, don't we?" Malcolm said. "Here I thought it was just us and the baby."

"You still have me, Daddy!" Sorcha pouted. She crawled up into his lap and clung to his fleece jumper protectively. "I'm still here!"

"Yeah, but you're a big sister now, and big sisters are big girls and can look after themselves, don't you think?"

"I think so," Clara added. At that, Sorcha wibbled her bottom lip and let her eyes go wide.

"You mean… you won't take care of me anymore…?"

"Nah, you wee scamp," Malcolm teased. He tickled her sides and made his eldest shriek in surprise, involuntarily waking his youngest. Clara took the baby from the room in a huff, which let father and daughter play around a bit before it was time to put together some tea. Malcolm took Sorcha into the kitchen with him, ignoring the kettle that was filling itself in the sink.

"Daddy, I'm still gonna be your baby for always, right?" Sorcha asked as she sat at the table.

"Of course you are," he replied. "You and your sister both will always be my babies. Mam and I made you, and nothing can change that."

"Good. I don't want that to change," the girl said. She kicked her legs in the air and watched as her father fetched the biscuit tin and mugs for tea. "Is Catriona's gonna stay with us while Mummy is at work?"

"She certainly will, and you get to help me take care of her, until you're in school," he said as he sat down. "Don't worry, Sorchie; I think you're going to be a great big sister. She'll learn from you, look up to you, and that's gonna be the best feeling in the world."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't lie to you about that." He ruffled her hair and chuckled—he had only the highest hopes for both his daughters.


	27. Fry-Up, 2010

A/N: The following takes place in 2010, after the dating process begins, but before the engagement. No real plot-just a morning scene.

* * *

Caring… not precisely the word that most people who knew Malcolm would use to describe him as. Coarse or callous, certainly, but not caring. It was an image cultivated at great expense to his personal life, for if someone knew that he had a weak spot, they were going to use it, and he was not about to let someone wrong him or the Party simply because he _cared_.

Clara though… she was anything but a weak spot. She more than held her own in an argument and could give a bollocking from the subtle to the in-your-face. There were few who worked in the Ministry of Magic and could claim that they did not fear her wrath, which only made the Muggle man even harder for her.

It was a Sunday, which he hoped was going to be quiet as far as Sundays went. He woke up with Clara partially draped over him, both stark naked as could be, as that was where they had landed after a wild night together that nearly caused him to lose his dignity and pass out mid-shag from the adrenaline. Gently shifting her off him so that she was the one on her back, he curled up along her side and began leaving light kisses against the side of her face.

"Morning," he murmured in her ear. She hummed lowly and began to languidly stretch—she was awake.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.

"Ready for me to redeem myself for that fucking pitiful performance last night?"

"No: it's your house, so it's your turn to make breakfast," she chuckled. Clara rolled out of bed and away from his grasp, snatching his bathrobe from its peg and giving him a wink as she walked out the door.

Of course. Breakfast. He threw on his pants from the night before and went downstairs to find the coffee already brewing and Clara skimming through the morning's _Daily Prophet_. Putting on an apron, he began to put together the components of a fry-up, as his stomach was grumbling at a nearly embarrassing volume.

"Anything good I need to know about in there?" he wondered.

"It's the same-old; nothing that won't be forgotten in a week's time anyhow," she assured him. "There a couple deniers of Wizarding War atrocities that are gaining some attention, but they're not my concern."

"How so?"

"They always implode upon themselves before anything major comes of it," she explained dully. "Sympathizers of the Death Eaters are more common than anyone really wants to admit, and whenever someone tries to act the apologist it backfires on them. What doesn't help is that there are still some people who think that magic means genetic superiority, while it really means we can die if we try a spell too big for our talents."

"You have precisely the right sized talents, thank you very much," he replied. "They're not too big or too small to fit in my hands, are fucking beautifully perky, and are genuinely the tastiest pillows I've ever licked."

"Flatterer."

"Have to make up for making you tinned beans somehow, love."

"I thought that was the sex you were promising upstairs."

"The sex is making up for _last night_ , the dirty talk is for the _beans_."

"Ever the romantic."

Soon the sound of sizzling bacon fat was filling the kitchen and the smells of a hearty breakfast were wafting throughout the house. The couple ate their food with their ankles hooked around each other, wanting to touch yet still have complete use of both hands.

"You should wear that getup around the house more often," Clara teased. "It's got the best view _and_ it doesn't let your chest burn."

"It has cartoon ducks on it."

"Natasha picked it out _especially_ for you if I remember correctly. You have such a considerate niece, wanting to make sure Uncle Malcy doesn't ruin his front while cooking."

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off," he snickered.

"Can't until you give me a bit more direction than that—you know how we government workers are."

"Oh, you asked for it," he grinned, flashing his teeth devilishly. He waited until she put down her coffee before standing and picking her up out of the chair, burying his face in her neck as he spun around the kitchen.

"Malcolm!" she laughed, hitting his shoulder lightly. "Put me down!"

"Not until I teach you a lesson," he growled playfully. Carrying her over into the sitting room, he placed her on the couch and crawled atop of her, moving his gnawing kisses from her neck to her chest. Malcolm was in the middle of an incredible adrenaline rush that was beginning to build and let his prick thankfully harden, when all of a sudden he discovered that he couldn't move.

As in, the only thing he could do was breathe.

"At least let me finish breakfast first," Clara said, wriggling her way out from under him. Fuck—when did she get her wand? What sort of spell did she use on him? Would he still be physically able to continue when she unfroze him? He made a whimpering sound as she walked away, leaving him on his elbows and knees on the couch.

"Only if you're a good boy and wait," she giggled as she returned to her fry-up.

Fuck.


	28. Natasha's Letter, 2015

A/N: This particular chapter takes place in late June and early July 2015; ages are as follows: Malcolm at 54, Clara at 33, Sorcha at 2, and a particular person at 11.

* * *

Natasha Tucker Wilson was a witch.

It had all started when Mary and Gordon had come over to Raven's Rook for a visit. While Malcolm wasn't very keen on the idea of his brother-in-law knowing he wasn't in prison, let alone coming anywhere near the house, he allowed it for the sake of his sister and niece. Before Clara had come into his life, and Sorcha after that, they were the ones he existed for and truly kept his life going. It was Natasha's drawings that he had put up on the walls of the office he occupied in Whitehall and confused everyone who came in; just because he now had a daughter of his own to dote on did not mean that he was any less fond of her.

"There's my wee troublemaker," Malcolm beamed as he opened the front door. Natasha was already running from the freshly parked car to hug him, nearly jumping into his arms. "Ach, I missed you, kiddo."

"I missed you too," the tween admitted. Her uncle let her go and stepped aside, allowing, niece, sister, and brother-in-law access to the house.

"Is Clara still at work?" Mary asked, picking up her niece. Sorcha squealed in delight and hugged her aunt, getting rather snuggly rather quick.

"Yeah, but she's taking off after lunch to visit," Malcolm replied. "Don't you want to unpack the boot?"

"We will, later," Gordon said. "Travel always seems to kick my arse."

"Unca Gordon said arse!" Sorcha giggled as Mary put her down. The houseplant next to her sprouted a new flower that bloomed, which the young girl ignored in favor of finding a doll to shove towards her cousin.

"I am never going to get used to that," Gordon shuddered. "I don't know how you stay sane, Malcolm, with shit like that happening all the time."

"It probably helps that I've known Clara for so long," Malcolm shrugged. "Anyone want a cuppa? I've got a regular kettle."

Being met with a chorus of yeses, he went off into the kitchen to put together tea. Malcolm was plugging in the kettle when he heard a soft tapping on the window. An owl was sitting on the ledge, a letter attached to its neck.

"Now what the fuck are you doing here?" he wondered aloud. Owls rarely came without Clara in the house, and the ones that did were usually from her when she was unable to contact him via the phone. Opening up the window, Malcolm let the bird in and watched as it hopped inside and flew further into the house, disappearing into the sitting room. He poked his head in to see the bird sitting in front of Natasha on the floor, everyone staring at it.

"Owl!" Sorcha gasped.

"It's… addressed to _me_ …" Natasha marveled.

"It can't be," Mary said in disbelief. "Why would an owl have something addressed to you, sweetie? Is it Aunt Clara's handwriting?"

"No, but that's my name alright," the tween said. She carefully took the owl's message and pet it on the head. The bird waited for Sorcha to feed it a biscuit, gave an affectionate squeak, and flew away through the house and out the open kitchen window. "It says: ' _Natasha Wilson, Room at the End of the Corridor, Raven's Rook, Forest of Bowland, Lancashire, England_.' That's the room I always sleep in—this _is_ for me!"

"Are you sure it's not some sort of mistake, pet?" Gordon asked.

"Nope, it _is_ for me, see?" Natasha showed her father the envelope before opening it. A few moments of reading and her hands began to shake. "Uncle Malc? When does Aunt Clara get off of work?"

"In about an hour; why?"

"I've been accepted to Hogwarts."

* * *

The following couple of days did not exactly pass smoothly for the Wilson-Tucker-Oswald Family. There was plenty of skepticism and irritation on the part of Gordon, unconvinced that his daughter was truly a witch, while Mary was simply flabbergasted at the notion. Clara did what she could to coax magic out of Natasha, even going as far as writing the Deputy Headmistress over at Hogwarts asking to double-check the ledger. It was correct and eventually, during a shouting match between Malcolm and Gordon over the entire business, Natasha displayed a burst of magic that caught even her aunt off-guard.

"Stop fighting!" she cried, trying to break up the row. When her uncle and father kept on going, she clenched her fists and closed her eyes in an attempt to not devolve into hysterics. " _Stop it!_ "

Immediately the two men froze, muted and immobile, which surprised everyone in the room. Clara took out her wand and unstuck the men, bringing her sobbing niece in for a hug immediately afterwards.

"Would you look at that… we've got a Muggle-born witch in the family, just like my mum was," she said, stroking the girl's hair. She glanced over towards her husband and brother-in-law, both now silent, and shot them a look that forbade either from uttering another word. She then kissed Natasha's forehead and gave her an encouraging smile. "Hey, you're going to be better off than most other Muggle-borns… they have a Hogwarts professor talk to them and their parents, help them out, but you've got me and I can make sure that you get everything you need and all your questions answered."

The following day, which was when the Wilsons were scheduled to return home anyhow, Natasha bid her parents goodbye and put her suitcase in the boot of her uncle's car. Gordon and Mary had a list of things to send her, as she was going to remain at Raven's Rook for the remainder of the summer, before heading off to Hogwarts on the First of September. Malcolm and Clara packed their own bags, and once niece and daughter were set and ready to go, they set off in the opposite direction of Gordon and Mary… towards London.

Of course Natasha remembered London from when she visited her uncle back in his old life, the one where he shouted a whole lot more and occasionally made the papers her parents wouldn't let her read, yet this time she got to see a whole new side she never even knew existed. Her uncle nearly missed the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, while she was merely amazed that it was there to begin with. Once they had a room booked and set their things in it, the family went into the little courtyard where the entrance to Diagon Alley was. Three bricks up and two across and they were in, allowing Natasha her first true look inside the magical world.

The girl's eyes went wide as she stepped onto the cobblestone street, seeing wizarding life for the first time outside her aunt and uncle's house. Ever since she learned of the existence of magic she had imagined what it must have been like; certainly there _had_ to be places to buy things and it couldn't have been _nearly_ as boring as Uncle Malcolm's old job (as she had been told that he and Aunt Clara did essentially the same thing), yet nothing could have prepared her for this.

"Aunt Clara, how come you never brought me here before?" Natasha wondered as she was ushered into a very old-looking building. It was a dark, gloomy-looking storefront that wasn't manned, so they waited for the clerk to arrive. "This place is _amazing_!"

"I wasn't aware that you were a witch before you got your letter," Clara explained. "It would have been cruel to bring you to Diagon Alley and tell you that you didn't belong."

"What about Uncle Malc?"

"In the years I was working with Malcolm before we started dating, I was able to figure out that although he accepted this world's existence, he never had a great desire to be in it. Sure it could have helped him out here or there, but he never longed for it once he knew, and he was never jealous that he was born a Muggle."

Natasha glanced out the window, watching her uncle and cousin as they waited in the street. "So you wanted to make sure I wouldn't be angry or hate you and Sorcha, yeah?"

"Correct; it's why we never told you about magic to begin with until after Sorcha cried up a thunderstorm in the nursery," Clara chuckled. It was then that a man came out of the back, greeting his customers with a smile.

"Good to see you again, Clara," he said. "Escorting another Muggle-born for their first wand?"

"This time it's my niece," she replied. "Natasha, this is Mister Ollivander—his family has been making wands for well over two millennia, and his father even sold me my wand."

"…and any niece of yours is bound to be smarter than should be probable, so let's get you a walnut wand to try out first, to see where we need to go from there," Ollivander told Natasha. He plucked a slender box from the wall and took a wand from it, placing it in the girl's hand. "Give it a swish, please."

She did and a glass jar exploded.

"No, no, no…" Ollivander muttered, snatching the wand back. He then grabbed another wand and handed it to her. "This one is rowan with unicorn hair; go on."

"Unicorn hair?"

"Wand from here almost always come with cores made of unicorn hair, dragon heartstrings, or phoenix feathers," Clara explained. "Now try it." Her niece emitted a couple sparks from the wand's end, yet that did not seem to satisfy Ollivander.

"Not that one," he frowned. He attempted to give her another and that didn't even reach her hand before he pulled it back. "Beech? No. Apple? Probably not. Vine? I doubt—not sold many of those lately… Clara, may I see your wand?"

"She's not a blood-relation, but you can try," she said, holding out the handle of her wand.

"Eleven inches, three quarters, sycamore and phoenix feather…" He swished it around and nodded. "This is actually my Grandfather Gervaise's work now that I feel it—definitely mercurial."

"It does enjoy the work I put it through," Clara admitted. She was handed back her wand and watched as Ollivander climbed a ladder to reach a high shelf.

"Based on what your aunt's wand told me, I think this is a decent match for you, Natasha," he said. He slid back down to the floor and passed the box to the tween. "Finished it just last Wednesday: thirteen inches; made with yew wood and a phoenix's feather."

"I didn't realize you still made that pairing," Clara said, watching her niece carefully.

"My father never did after he suspected he sold a thirteen-and-a-half one to its more infamous bearer, and that was purely out of superstition—I hold that different wand makers hold different lucks." Ollivander watched as Natasha waved the wand around and grinned. " ** _Perfect_**."

"Really?" Natasha asked.

"Really," he affirmed. "Now listen to your aunt about the magical world and don't be afraid to get a little messy while at school; wands choose their owners more than the owners choose the wand, and not only is yew a fierce wood, the phoenix who gave the feathers in your wand and hers never has produced wands that go towards mediocrity. If I were a betting man, I'd say that chances are that you'll outstrip the Potter that's in your class."

"Harry's eldest is going to Hogwarts this term?" Clara asked.

"Missed him by about twenty minutes," Ollivander shrugged.

"I thought you and Uncle Malcolm said that Mister Potter is a tit," Natasha said. Ollivander snorted in amusement as he rang up the order, while Clara's face went red.

"Tash, please don't talk about what I do at work," she frowned. "It didn't matter before, but now you could get in trouble."

"Oh, sorry," the tween said. She took the box from the counter sheepishly, embarrassed for herself and her aunt. "Thank you, Mister Ollivander."

"Not a problem," he replied. "Just remember that your wand is the twin of your aunt's, so to speak. She's a powerful and great witch, and I can only guess that the sky's the limit for you… provided you learn who the gossips are." He gave her a knowing wink before they left, Malcolm greeting them as they exited the shop into the bright sunlight.

"That was quick," he said, holding Sorcha tight on his shoulders. "Milo took a whole fucking hour."

"Who's Milo?" Natasha asked.

"A young man whom was also a Muggle-born, but I had to enlist Uncle Malcolm's help in trying to get his parents to let him attend Hogwarts," Clara said. "He's gone off to wander about America for a gap year, but I'm sure you'll meet eventually."

"I hope so, 'cause I want to meet everyone," Natasha decided. "Uncle Malc? Can I hold Sorcha?"

"Sure thing," he said. He put Sorcha down on Natasha's shoulders and took the wand box from her, watching as the cousins went ahead towards the front of a joke shop where baubles flit through the air, making all sorts of lights and whizzing noises. Malcolm put his arm around Clara's shoulders as they walked along to pry the girls from their fun—school supplies first, fun later.


	29. First Family Christmas, 2013

A/N: The following takes place on December 25, 2013, and is just some Christmastime fluff for the Oswald-Tucker Family.

* * *

Clara woke up to the feeling of her husband kissing her collarbone. She hummed quietly as she allowed him to continue, satisfied as he traveled up her throat and across her face.

"Mornin', love," Malcolm murmured huskily in her ear. By now he had taken hold of her rear, shifting both of their hips into position. "Gotta get a go in before the bairn wakes up."

"My breasts ache—she's already up."

"Nah, she's not." He continued to kiss his wife's jawline as she tapped on the back of his head _three, two, one_ …

Right on cue, Sorcha began wailing from the nursery, causing her father to whine greedily. Clara wrenched herself from Malcolm's grasp and threw her robe over her nightgown before heading over to where their daughter was flailing in her cot, hungry and cranky and demanding plenty of attention. She quieted as she was picked up, knowing that food was sure to come.

Sure enough, she was feeding within moments, and was nearly full by the time her father came shuffling into the room. His own robe was draped over his shoulders, open to show his vest and pants that accompanied the socks he had stubbornly worn to bed.

"Fucking freezing in here, isn't it?" he scowled. He glared out the frosted-over window, angry at the weather. "Temperate climate my left bollock—I think I see snow out past the trees."

"Relax," Clara gently chided. She stood and passed him their daughter so that she could tighten her robe. Once done, she closed his robe, fastening it teasingly. "It could be worse and I could have taken that job offer in America—they're predicting it to get close to a foot of snow and temperatures possibly close to _negative twenty_ next week by where we would have moved to."

"Fuck—I'm shrinking just thinking about it," he shuddered.

"Then be glad our little copse of trees is surrounded by very English moors and fells, while the house itself is disguised to look like an area closed due to unexploded bombs," she teased.

Malcolm held onto their daughter as he followed her out of the room, headed down the stairs and towards where they had set up the tree. Sorcha's eyes went wide as she stared at the display in the middle of the sitting room—it hadn't been there when she went to bed, and now there was a lighted tree and wrapped presents waiting for her to arrive.

"See that, Sorchie?" Malcolm whispered before kissing the side of her head. "Santa came last night."

"Saanaa?" the baby babbled. She was an excellent mimic already, though when her first true word would occur was going to be. Six months old and there was already a betting pool on which curse she'd latch onto first.

"Aye, Santa." It didn't matter that the decorating was all Clara and her wandwork, while presents had been hid in a cupboard after being wrapped during naptimes; it was Santa. _He_ was Santa. Holding his daughter tight, Malcolm stroked her back as she attempted to wriggle free. "Nope—breakfast first, _then_ we see what Santa brought you for being a good girl."

"Saanaa!"

"I know, Sorcha. Just wait a tic until Mam and Da get coffee in them."

He secured her in the high chair and handed her a biscuit to gnaw her gums on before sitting down to the coffee stirring its own sugar in while Clara put together their breakfast. Sausage and bacon, beans, toast for her and a potato scone for him, eggs, and a tomato split between them, the resident witch worked her culinary magic while her husband watched to make sure their daughter was not getting any biscuit lodged in her throat.

By the time Malcolm and Clara finished their breakfast, Sorcha had reduced her biscuit to a drool-infused mush and was demanding to be released from her prison. The parents got the dishes going and threw together the stew contents that would substitute their Christmas dinner in the slow cooker before unleashing their infant on the house. Putting her on the kitchen floor, they watched as she fumblingly crawled over to the presents beneath the tree, flopping down on the rug in exhaustion before going any further.

"You silly thing, getting tired before opening any presents," Clara laughed. She sat down crosslegged and put her daughter in her lap, placing a present on the floor before them. Sorcha leaned forward and cautiously touched the package, gasping when her fingers poked through the paper.

When she realized that her parents weren't pulling the object away from her, the girl continued her experiment, pulling at bits of the brightly colored paper. Feeling something soft underneath, she tore at the wrapping and uncovered a stuffed owl, the sight of which made her shriek in delight. She hugged it tightly, pulling the toy close despite the mess of paper and sticky tape still attached to it.

"First Christmas present a success," Malcolm chuckled.

"That's for certain," Clara agreed. She gently pulled off the remaining wrapping paper and set it aside, far enough so that Sorcha could not reach it and shove the stuff in her mouth. Bringing another present before her daughter, she watched as that one was opened as well, revealing a pretend mobile with large buttons that lit up and made all sorts of obnoxious noises.

"Clara?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

She glanced over at him, seeing that he was perched on the edge of the couch cushion in concern. "Nothing; just watching Sorcha."

"Let her explore and come here," he requested. After placing Sorcha near another present (this one a stuffed badger), Clara went to sit next to Malcolm on the couch. He leaned into the cushions and put one arm around her, watching as Sorcha tossed torn paper before rolling around in the cheerily-patterned wreckage. "We did it."

"We did, didn't we?"

Cuddled together, they silently enjoyed the sight of their child enjoying her first Christmas to the best of her ability. When she was bored with the wrapping paper, she curled up on the rug with her new stuffed toys and used them as pillows as she took a mid-morning nap. A pair of mugs filled with hot chocolate floated in from the kitchen for the parents, the two merely glad that all three of them were together that morning.


	30. Cat Goes to Hogwarts, 2028

A/N: I was asked to write about Catriona's first year at Hogwarts and Sorcha giving her sisterly words of wisdom. Instead I came up with this.

* * *

Catriona wasn't entirely sure she wanted to go to Hogwarts. It wasn't as though she hadn't learned plenty from her father as he homeschooled her, the Muggle man adamant about her learning "normal things" in spite of her eventual magical education. She knew she was a witch, just like her mum, sister, and cousin, and had known so for a long time, yet there was something in her that simply wasn't sure about anything. There were plenty of things that she did not want to give up by leaving for school, ranging from the ability to visit her grandfather to simply the fact she had her parents all to herself for most of the year.

It was the evening before the sisters were supposed to head to Hogwarts together for the first time and things had yet to change for the youngest Oswald. Twilight still dominated the sky as Sorcha walked past her sister's room, noticing that the door was left open a crack. She poked her head in and found that Catriona was already in bed, covers over her head and curled up in a ball.

"Cat, what's wrong?" she asked. She sat down on the edge of the mattress and shook her sister's shoulder gently. "You're going to make yourself sick being like this."

"I want to stay at home with Dad," Catriona mumbled. She pulled the blanket tighter over her head and pouted. "Why do I have to go?"

"Dad can't teach you how to use magic and Mum's too tired when she gets home, if she gets here at all," Sorcha stated. "Besides, Hogwarts is really cool. I know you'll absolutely love it."

"I can barely handle living _here_ when I'm not feeling good—what's it going to be like living at a _magic school_?" Catriona posed. "I don't wanna go."

"Well, you have to," her sister said sternly. "We already have all the stuff you'll need for classes, and Mum and Dad are ready to take us in the morning." She rolled her eyes at her sister's whimper of a reply. "Come on, you're being ridiculous."

When Catriona refused to either move or reply further, Sorcha stormed from the room and went downstairs. Her parents were sitting watching television on the couch, hoping that they could get some rest in before the hectic day ahead of them.

"Cat's being Cat," Sorcha announced. "I am _not_ dragging around a whiny baby while at school, I hope you know that."

"You are going to shut up and not give her any grief," Malcolm sniped. "You weren't exactly nerves-free before you first went to Hogwarts."

"Yeah, but I wasn't _terrified_ ," Sorcha scoffed. "How is she even my sister?"

"Your Auntie Mary was like that as a nip—now cut the sass and be an adult about this or I will treat you like a child and turn you over my knee."

Sorcha rolled her eyes and went to her own room, not wanting to either fight about it or figure out whether or not her father was bluffing. It wasn't as though it was going to be the end of the world, though if it was, hopefully she was at least in a different House as her weepy kid sister.

* * *

King's Cross was in considerable disarray as the morning arrivals and departures made their way throughout the station towards wherever their lives were taking them. The Tucker-Oswald Family blended in perfectly with the Muggles wandering about, making it so that they were able to slip into the 9 ¾ Platform completely unnoticed.

"I swear, I am going to have to kill Bletchley before he decides to go out into public in normal clothes," Clara growled as she conducted inventory of her daughters' things on the other side of the magic barrier, making sure nothing had dropped.

"What if I went around in a kilt?" Malcolm shrugged.

"A kilt is one thing—wizarding robes in the middle of a mostly-Muggle crowd is grounds for arrest due to a breech of the Statute," she replied. She then turned towards the girls and forced a smile. "It looks like you've got everything. Let's go put it on the train."

"I still don't feel good, Mum," Catriona frowned. She did legitimately feel sick to her stomach, especially now that she was in the magic part of the station. Her mother gave her a hug in an effort to comfort her, though it was all in vain.

"Don't worry," Clara said. "You've got Sorcha to help you, and you even know some of the staff members already. What would Mr. Thatcher say if he knew you were this worried?"

"…I dunno…"

"Now, perk up; it's scary, yeah, but it's the only way to face it. We all have to do things we don't want to do in the end, so we might as well face them head-on."

Catriona smiled at that, though she did not mean it at all. She knew her mum was only trying to make her feel better, but it wasn't exactly helping, especially now that she could see the Hogwarts Express sitting on the nearby tracks. There were too many variables that worried the tween that she knew her mother never had to worry about. She hadn't had a highly-talented sister in Hogwarts, or a cousin just as clever—possibly even more so—that made Head Girl, and probably never worried about which House she'd get Sorted into. It all scared her so much that she started sniffling as she and her father put her trunk in the luggage car.

"Hey Cat," Malcolm whispered. He kissed her temple and patted her on the back. "Give it until Christmas, okay? If it's that fucking dreadful, I'll see what I can do."

"Really?"

"'Course; now give your ol' da a hug."

With a hug and a kiss for both her parents, Catriona went onto the train and tried to find where Sorcha went. She instead found an empty compartment that she settled into, hoping that someone would come in and introduce themselves, whether they be older or the same age as her. No one came and the train lurched into motion, Catriona waving out the window to her parents by herself.

The trolley lady had come and gone already by the time Sorcha found where her sister was hiding, reading a book to pass the time. She sat down on the bench seat across from her and frowned.

"Are you still feeling like shit?"

No answer.

"Are you cross at me? You shouldn't be."

"You called me a whiny baby."

"…and it's the truth, but that doesn't mean I want you to _stay_ a whiny baby," Sorcha replied. "I know you'd rather stay at home with Mum and Dad, but that can only happen if you're a Squib, which you're not, so it's stupid to worry."

"It's scary though. What if a ghost comes through the walls while I'm changing?"

"Cat, take it from me: there are many, many scary things at Hogwarts, but chances are that if you find them, you'll be ready, because it's still a _school_." She then glanced out the window to check where they were. "Hey, we're almost there—let's get changed now so we're not rushing when everyone's all out in the corridors."

The sisters did so, taking advantage of the purse their mother had enchanted for Sorcha so that it could hold more than just a few things, having put their uniforms in there before they left the house early that morning. Catriona tried not to stare at the silver and blue tie that her sister wore, wondering about her own Sorting. Families generally went into the same House, so she was told, but at the same time, she knew that the only ones to share a House were her Gryffindor mother and grandmother, with that being as far back as her family went magic-wise. By the time Catriona hopped off the train at the station, she was trying not to think of Houses or families or how grown-up her sister seemed while she felt very childish. Sorcha immediately went off to head to the castle with her friends, leaving her sister to figure out things on her own.

"First Years! With me!" a voice boomed. Catriona turned around and caught sight of the tallest man she'd ever seen; grey-haired and with an impressive beard, he was swinging a lantern as he urged the smallest of the students to gather around him. "C'mon, I'm the caretaker—you're supposed to come with me!"

Following cautiously, Catriona joined her fellow First Years as they were ushered down a lane and towards where some small boats were docked on the shore of a lake. She climbed into an empty boat, regretting it almost immediately as two boys were ordered to join her by the gamekeeper. They looked at her curiously with similar dark features that were barely lit in the torchlight.

"Are you okay?" one of them asked.

"I'm just nervous," Catriona admitted. "My sister kind of ditched me at the station 'cause she's a Fifth Year and I don't know what's going on."

"That's why we're glad we're twins," the other boy said. "I'm Lorcan, and this is my brother Lysander."

"I'm Catriona."

* * *

A/N: Yes, Hagrid is a bit shy of 100 years old. No, I don't think he'd stop working before this.


	31. Sorcha's First Match, October 2025

A/N: Here's a fill that involves Quidditch, and probably takes place about October 2025.

* * *

Closing his book, Malcolm stood from the couch and stretched. He had been trying to concentrate on something all day, yet every time he attempted to do something—read, watch telly, attempt writing—he couldn't help but have his mind catapult to what was going to happen later that afternoon: Sorcha's first Quidditch match.

Now it wasn't that he was worried about his daughter's safety, as it was already proven that she was willing to hex a student twice her size if need be, but he was worried about the potential aftereffects of the match. Would she no longer want to pay attention to football and rugby with him? Would she be any good? Could she possibly get cut from the team for being young? Would it affect her studies? Would it affect _Catriona's_ studies, being grumpy over her sporty elder sister? Aftereffects nothing—he was worried about plain old-fashioned fallout with Raven's Rook being ground-fucking-zero. He put his book away and went upstairs to poke his head in the spare room, where his youngest daughter was working on school.

"Hey, time to get ready, Cat," he mentioned.

"In a tic, Da—sitting a quiz," she replied, not glancing away from the screen for even a second.

"Alright; dress warmly." He wasn't going to admonish her for getting as much coursework done as possible, because at least she was learning practical, very Muggle things via a computer-based homeschooling course that was concerned with teaching her maths and science. At the rate she was going, she was going to overtake Sorcha in her courses around the same time the following year. The plan had been for both the girls to be far enough ahead to make the remainder of their Muggle schooling fit in the summers they were attending Hogwarts, yet Cat seemed to be aiming to finish before stepping foot on the Hogwarts Express.

Still beaming ever so slightly, Malcolm went to his room to change into some thermal trousers and pull a thick jumper over his shirt. He was just about ready to pull on his second set of socks when his younger daughter appeared in the doorway, bundled up and ready to go.

"I thought Mum was coming home first," she said.

"Naw—we're meeting her at Hog's Head; something about needed to knock some shits senseless and needing the time to do it properly."

"Why doesn't Mum just try to get the Minister position? It's not like she runs the magical side of the Statue or anything."

"…because sometimes being the one behind the figurehead is the safest and most effective place to be," he explained. They went downstairs and over towards the sitting room fireplace, where there was an urn full of Floo Powder waiting for them. "You don't want Mam caught in the line of fire because some tit thinks its clever and tries some mass-mindwiping charm—"

"…and that's just the best-case scenario, I know," she interrupted as they stepped into the fireplace. "I still think that she'd do better than some of the names being passed around for next Minister."

"That's 'cause she's Mam. Now one, two, three…"

" _Hog's Head Inn!_ "

Father and daughter were transported in a flash of green light to the pub in question, which was moderately busy for it not being an evening or in the middle of a Hogsmeade trip. Malcolm gave the ancient proprietor a nod as the two crossed paths, the latter towards some customers with tankards of butterbeer and ale, and the former towards his wife sitting in a booth.

"About time you two got here," Clara smirked. She stood and pecked her husband on the lips before giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek. "I was almost about to head to the house to get you."

"Needed to give the nip time to finish her quiz," Malcolm grinned. "Too bad she's headed over here in a few years' time, 'cause I bet Jaime'd house her in London while she mops the floor with some bloody uni toff in the most prestigious fucking program there is."

"You're just jealous," she replied.

"Jealous? I'm glad for her," he said, completely offended.

"He's jealous," Catriona piped up. Malcolm then sulked after his wife and youngest daughter as they exited the pub and made their way down towards Hogwarts.

After being let in through the checkpoint along with a couple other families, the Oswald-Tuckers walked over towards the Quidditch pitch, where students were already beginning to fill the stands. The non-school-related audience went and sat in a special box near the staff, where Natasha was sitting there waiting for them.

"About time," she said. "I was beginning to wonder…"

"Careful Tash—your wee cousin's up against _your_ house today, isn't that right?" Malcolm warned.

"Hufflepuff's got a good team this year if what I hear's true," Natasha smirked. "Being clever's not the only thing that Ravenclaw's gonna need today."

"Maybe not for Sorcha," Catriona said. She sat down next to her cousin and the family settled in for what she was certain to be at least a couple of hours.

A little over thirty minutes passed of the adults catching up with one another before the pitch was full and the two teams came out to being play. Sorcha was easy to pick out of the Ravenclaw team, being both the smallest and the only one with silver on her robes in place of the rest of the team's gold. Her family knew that she must have enchanted the robes to look that way, as she claimed that she "liked silver and blue together better", though it was still up in the air on if it was more to simply annoy others or not.

The whistle blew and the match began. It was difficult to keep track of Sorcha as she darted in an out of play, whizzing around in her attempt to catch the Snitch and win the game. Her father sat in the parents' box knowing that his daughter was chosen purely for her size and prowess on a broomstick, yet he himself had little clue as to what for.

"She's trying to catch the Snitch, Dad," Catriona explained when she saw the glazed-over look in her father's eyes. "Mum, I thought you said that Dad's been to _World Cups_ ; how can he not know Quidditch if he's been to World Cups?"

"Leave your father alone—Quidditch hasn't exactly been important to him until now," Clara scolded gently. She held her husband's hand and squeezed it gently. "Something tells me that he's going to learn a lot very quickly."

"I don't care if it takes until Sorcha's seventh year—I'll make sense of this bullshit eventually," he promised. Malcolm held her hand tightly, not wanting to let go as he watched their daughter dive towards the ground and pull up last-second. "She looks so happy, so determined…"

"…so Sorcha," Clara finished.

"Yeah… definitely Prime Sorcha. Now tell me again about the scoring system."


	32. The Chills, 2011

A/N: This takes place in late 2011, during the Oswald-Tuckers' first year of marriage.

* * *

For being a man who mostly survived on various sweets, junk food, and whatever could be plopped into a takeaway container, Malcolm wasn't ever really sick. Occasionally he'd catch a case of the sniffles when the weather was particularly moist and chilly, but that was far from being a constant in his life. This meant that, of course, when he did come down with something, it was usually seen as a sign of the End of Days by those with whom he dealt with and those who dealt with his ire. Even when technically out of commission he was a terror, and potentially even more so since it turned him into an invisible menace—a terror which nearly needed its own war waged upon it. This was what life was like with him as a coworker.

Except, this time he fell sick, he had a tiny witch to deal with him.

Well… a tiny witch _wife_.

…a tiny witch wife who was very firm and persuasive.

Only the best for Malcolm Tucker.

Not entirely sure how he developed a fever, Malcolm laid grouchily in bed as Clara examined the readout on the thermometer. "Thirty-eight," she frowned. "No wonder you've got the chills."

"I'm perfectly fine," he protested. He attempted sitting up only for her to shove him back down by the shoulders. "Clara!"

"No, you're not," she replied. She quickly confiscated both his work and personal mobiles and sent off a text on her own. "You're staying home until you're better—just checked in with Sam."

"Fucking—I've got a meeting to attend to make sure Nicola isn't cocking shit up left and right."

"Then I guess you're going to have to trust Nicola."

"You've met the twat; you know I can't do that."

" _You_ talk as though you've got a choice."

"Of course I have a fucking choice. I'm gonna—" He was going to continue on, but Clara whipped out her wand, which made him freeze at the sight of it. "You wouldn't!"

"In sickness and in health, and you're definitely not in the latter category right now."

"Clara, I…!"

" _Petrificus totalus!_ "

Malcolm seized up and fell back into bed, body having gone completely rigid. Clara sat down on the edge of the mattress and tutted while she smoothed out his hair.

"One of these days, we might not be able to have the luxury of lying in bed all day when we're sick, which means that we have to take advantage of it while we can," she said. She chuckled at the glare he gave her—not one of anger, but one that knew that she was right. "Now how about I take this spell off and we listen to our senses for a change?"

Since the glare did not get angry, Clara did just that and silently lifted the spell on Malcolm. He immediately jammed the covers over his head and curled up in a ball, muttering, "I'll see you after work."

"Uh, no; someone has to make sure you're behaving, and that someone shouldn't be Sam," she replied. "She may be a witch, but all magic runs out at some point. I'm simply going to work from home today. Now you stay here while I send an owl and make us some toast and tea—and no funny business." Clara then walked out, leaving her husband to stew on his fate.

Only the most stubborn, headstrong, and commanding witches alive for Malcolm Tucker, indeed.

* * *

That morning, Malcolm allowed himself to be taken care of by Clara and her magic. He knew that for some husbands and wives (and whichever combination there-fucking-of; he didn't mind), that two-syllable word— _magic_ —was only a euphemism. When living with one Clara Oswald as their dearly beloved, it wasn't anything odd to see a tea service float in on its own, settling down on the bed next to where he laid while another floated down the corridor to the upstairs office. He regarded the stuff with a small pat to the handle, as though it were more a pet cat than anything.

"There's medicine there too," Clara shouted from the office. Malcolm sat up and saw that, yes, there were a couple pills sitting in a tiny plastic cup next to his tea.

"Where'd you get these wee piss beakers?" he wondered loudly. "Last time I saw a non-shot glass this small I was at the doctor's—don't recall buying these."

"That's because I did—they're nifty for sorting medicine."

"You make it sound like we're fucking ancient."

"We will be, one day, so we might as well get used to it."

Scowling, Malcolm waited for the tea to finish mixing itself before tossing back the pills and a couple gulps of the liquid warmth. There was some more toast sitting on a plate for him, so he nibbled at that while sipping at the remaining tea. He was dying to know what was going on in the world, to see if there was any sort of an emergency, but he also was trying to remember _why the_ _ **fuck**_ he had never put a television set in his room. Then again, how often was he home sick? Before Clara, what did he have to do in his room but sleep? It shouldn't've been any sort of surprise, but it _was_ boring without his mobiles at the very least.

"I don't feel nearly like dying as much from the chills as I am from stagnation—can't I have a shout?" he wondered loudly.

"No."

"Come on—I'm going fucking soft in here."

"There's a spell to take care of that; don't you remember?"

"I think what I _remember_ is that if I don't get in my daily recommended bollockings a day, I start to turn to stone."

"Nonsense," Clara laughed. She entered the room, mug in-hand, and waited for the tea tray to float towards the chest of drawers before sitting down next to Malcolm. "I thought we've discussed this: you're not a bollocking-shark."

"Yes, I am," he insisted, tone gentle and flirty. He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her hair. This was much more preferable to television anyhow. "It's even more obvious when we tag-team-bollock, though I still think it'd be more effective if I was the Good Cop."

"You couldn't be Good Cop even if you tried—it's in the face. You've got the wrong face," she laughed. "By the way, is the toast staying down?"

"Yeah."

"Good. It's probably time for you to get some more rest." She pecked him on the cheek and stood back up, taking out her wand. The tea tray floated over and allowed Malcolm to deposit what was left of his snack before he laid down.

"Nothing that'll give me hallucinations, yeah?" he requested. "A bloody fucking trip is the last thing I need right now."

"Not a problem; hold still."

Clara traced a precise path in the air using the tip of her wand, allowing a trail of shimmering yellow dust to gently snake its way out. It curled and twisted as it made its way to Malcolm, settling over his head before seeping in through his nostrils, eyes, mouth, and ears. He felt nothing other than awkwardness, falling to sleep soon after the spell was cast. His wife made sure that the spell worked and kissed him on the temple before heading back to work in the office, where she had half a sandwich and some crisps waiting for her. All he needed was some convincing, and that was easy as long as she knew the right spells.


	33. Anger Management, 2009

A/N: The following chapter takes place about 2009, so pre-dating relationship but within flirting range; also contains absurd references and angry nature.

* * *

Okay, so what if Malcolm swore every once in a fucking while? Someone would cock up and his language would appropriately reflect that. It wasn't like he was _violent_ when it came to his coworkers—often—and when he did get violent, he was also appropriately remorseful (bless Glenn and his ridiculously microscopic kettle… he guessed). He had scruples, after all, despite what others thought. He couldn't help that he was surrounded by tits and twats and cunts and useless pieces of discarded foreskin, all day, every day, up to his shitting ears in them.

…meaning that the _one time_ he chewed out an intern after she cocked up on the first day, using the most colorful language he could in order to make it a one-time bollocking session, it _had_ to be a MP's daughter… an MP's daughter who simply _had_ to tell Daddy all about the mean old Scottish ghillie who made her cry because she didn't do her fucking job.

Fucking fuckity fuck-fuck.

"So, you think you can get me out of this, Sammy?" he asked. He was sitting at his desk in his office, the appointment card for the specialist staring at him from the corner of the lacquered surface. "I mean, wave your wand and poof? It's all gone?"

"I'm terrible at Charms, so much that I almost didn't pass the necessary requirements," she admitted. She put a cup of coffee and a bagel on a clean part of the desk, the part usually reserved for food. "In their defense, you really shouldn't shout like that at someone on their first day."

"The twat had it coming—she looked like she was about to cry, like someone's never actually told her she cocked up in her entire fucking over-privileged existence."

"Even if that's true…"

"I'm not gonnae fuckin' apologize; Daddy should've warned her whose den she nailed an internship in. The Wolf of Whitehall holds his bark for no English Rose that thinks she can sleep her way through life until she can nail herself a sperm donor with a title and money. I don't play that game; competency always wins over goddamned breeding in my book."

"Unfortunately, you're not the author, only the editor, and the author is ready to bring you down if you don't go to that session," Sam reminded him. "Now hurry up or you'll be late."

Grumbling, Malcolm relented. If he and Sam both didn't see a way out, then there _was_ no way out. He finished up a couple of reports, emailed them off to Jamie to get proofed and distributed, and readied himself to go. Briefcase, overcoat, multiple mobiles, the bleeding appointment card… check, check, check, and fucking check. After giving Sam run of the office, he went out into the cold London streets and pulled out one of his many mobiles, hitting a specific speed-dial.

" _What do you need, Malcolm?_ "

"Clara, good, you're not in the office—I was wondering if you could do me a bit of a favor," he grinned.

" _Depends on what it is; I've got a secret magic country to run._ "

"Listen, I chewed out an intern the other day and now MP Daddy is trying to get me to take anger management classes so that if I fire off in his braindead spawn's direction again he can get me sacked. Is there anything you can do?"

" _Isn't this something for Sam to handle?_ "

"She just told me she's shit at Charms."

" _Shit at the Charms you'd need, at any rate_." There was a pause on the other end, in which Malcolm imagined that Clara was rubbing her temples. " _Which MP?_ "

"Goosefinch-Nottingham—how they come up with these fucktastuclar names is beyond me. The nip goes by just Nottingham, but if I'd known, I would have gone into her _extra_ hard."

" _For fuck's sake, Malcolm! Do get hard on putting your career on the line?! That's not just_ _ **any**_ _tit, but an up-and-coming-in-power tit whose daughter you just verbally assaulted!_ "

"You know that in our business, the career is on the line every minute of every goddamned day, and I'm _really good_ at my job, despite what these touchy-feely brats think with their sensitivity and cultural enlightenment and other such bullshit. If she fucked up, then she fucked up, and even if she were a crippled South Asian orphan with AIDS and biracial adoptive mams I would let her know that. She. Fucked. Up."

" _No one uses 'crippled' to refer to people anymore_."

"Kerry from Education does—she was the kid that went by the nickname 'Wheels' because she thought it was funny and to-the-point."

" _Not everyone has a sense of humor like Kerry_."

"…and not everyone should be coddled and encouraged to fuck up the nation when they should damn well know better. It's not even a matter of policy… just a twatbubble who thinks that because she has a fucking Political Science degree fresh from the laminator that she has all the answers when she's really just an irritating reminder of what nepotism and rewarding children that needed disciplining can do."

Clara groaned on the other end of the line, knowing he was right. " _What's the address?_ "

Bingo.

* * *

The twit in question that Malcolm Tucker had the displeasure of spending his afternoon with was one Arthur J. Curry, bunch of useless fucking letters tacked on the end. Malcolm really didn't give two fucks of a slicked dildo what degrees the man had or why the fuck they were both sitting in a sterile office that smelled a bit too much like aftershave and espresso. All he knew was that he was waiting on Clara to unveil whatever scheme she had cooked up to get him out of there.

"So, Mr. Tucker… let's start with you telling me a little bit about your home life," the twit said. His soft-spoken voice was as though warm lard and tanning oil had a mutagenic lovechild and then stuffed it in a sack to be put through Poxbridge. "I like to get a feel of all a patient's potential stressors, because the root of the issue might be something not in the forefront."

"Well, there's nothing there I want to tell you without feeling like I've been fucking violated," Malcolm snorted. He glanced at the wall, where a tank of tropical fish was sitting underneath a painting of the seaside. "Now those bits of chip dressing look too pretty to be legally-obtained. Take it you like fish?"

"Yes, and not just slathered in vinegar. I don't think you have room to talk about being verbally violated with some of the language I've been told you employ. Now, your home life?"

"Don't really have much of one, you know, being married to the job and all that," he shrugged. "Wish I could see a bit more of my niece though—she's fucking five and can run circles around the useless waste of government salaries I work with. You know it's bad when the most intelligent conversation you have is over what happened on that day's episode of _Peppa Pig_."

"Mr. Tucker, I wis—is that an owl…?" The therapist was distracted mid-sentence by an owl that perched itself on the ledge outside his window. With feathers that appeared to give Count Olaf's eyebrows a run for their money and a down-right murderous glare, it was a miracle that the therapist stood and crossed the room to get a closer look. "Isn't that something? I thought these things were all nocturnal."

"Maybe it needs some anger management too."

"Oh, look, there's something tied to its leg…"

Bango.

"Then why don't you let it in? Granny always said that helping an owl brings good luck."

"I don't think so." The therapist's face went blank as if in a trance, shook his head, and continued on. "Actually, maybe I will. What harm could it do?"

"The bill's not on my tab, so go ahead, take your time," Malcolm shrugged. He stayed in his chair, watching as the therapist went and opened the window. The owl swooped into the office and attacked the man, sharp talons going straight for his face.

"Fucking! Hey, get some help!" Malcolm shouted, bolting towards the door. He got the man's secretary and they were able to chase the owl out of the office, but not before damage had been done. Arthur J. Curry, bunch of useless fucking letters tacked on the end, was laying on the floor, blood dripping from his face, and in desperate need of medical attention.

…and Malcolm's non-involvement in the attack was all caught on CCTV.

* * *

"That was pretty clever," Malcolm nodded, taking a bite out of a positively sinful donut. He was half-sitting on Clara's desk, having brought a box of the things over to her office in the Ministry of Magic in thanks. "How'd you get the owl to do that?"

"Owls are highly intelligent beings, nearly on the verge of sentience," she replied with a shrug. She bit into her own donut, powdered sugar dusting the front of her blouse, making a tempting cleanup job for her visitor to engage in. "I just gave it directions and off it went—it's not stupid. Odalis knows which human keeps the frozen dormice."

"That's fucking sick; I love it," he chuckled. "Hey, what was on that scrap of paper tied to its leg?"

"Oh, nothing; better put a blank scrap of parchment on than one that incriminates either of us," Clara said. "Magical folk do worse to one another, so it's not like anyone here can _blame_ me."

"You're a fucking peach—a gift to all us unworthy cretins, sent straight from Blackpool herself," he laughed with a short mock-bow. "…or would it be you're a tangerine?"

"Either way, you're not going to anger management with a therapist with a face full of bandages any time soon," she reminded him.

Oh yes, that he wasn't.

* * *

A/N: The owl mentioned is the Crested Owl, which is found in Central and Northern South America. Photos can be found on wiki.


	34. Glenn the Squib, 20112021

A/N: This chapter takes place in two parts, dates provided, and is honestly something that makes so much sense that it's almost explainable as actual TTOI canon (but it isn't, because that would be hella weird).

* * *

 _August 2011_

Everything was in fucking omnishambles. An election was imminent, with people panicking in all the fucking departments and few around that could handle it. Though Malcolm _had_ begun his day at Number 10, he had somehow found himself at the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship by early afternoon, meaning he was with some of his favorite (i.e.: he was about to rip his fucking hair out) cockups.

"Where the _fuck_ is Nicola?!" he shouted. "She has an interview—she _fucking knows_ she has an interview—tomorrow with that Radio 2 twat and she fucking up and left!"

"I think she said something about her daughter as she was leaving," Olly shrugged. He was tapping away at his computer indifferently, trying to ignore the fact that Malcolm was there. The new tactic was particularly terrible, as Malcolm shoved the monitor out of the way and leaned down so he could make the little Oxbridge twit shit in his seat.

"I don't care _what_ it was she said—I just need her back here, _now_ ," he snarled. Malcolm began to storm away towards where he knew the kitchenette with tea was, only to stop when he noticed a particular individual shaking his head nearby. "What the fuck's your problem, you out-of-touch cumstain?"

"Nothing," Glenn frowned. "It's just that I don't know what she sees in you, considering all you are is a rabid Scottish terrier."

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" Malcolm hissed. He glared at Glenn, though the older man stood his ground, leaning on the wall. After checking to make sure Terri was still occupied with mothering Olly, of all things, Glenn stepped forward towards Malcolm so that the conversation was certain to be private.

"I was talking about your wife," he clarified.

"Tch—where'd you hear that shite? Been divorced for years."

"You're wearing a wedding ring."

"Makes a man fucking irresistible, didn't you know that?" He paused and snorted. "Sorry, a sad waste of dick like you? Never mind."

"I also read the announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ —isn't Oswald just a kid, though?"

A fire lit behind Malcolm's eyes and he curled his lips into a sneer. "Fucking hell, Cullen; give me one good reason why I shouldn't have her Memory Charm you into fucking nappies, and make it quick."

"I'm a _Squib_ , Malcolm, for Christ's sake," Glenn groaned. "My sister and I both; we keep up with wizarding events, but we'd be damned if we tried something simple as levitating a feather. I'm as bound to the Statue as much as you and the now-Mrs. Oswald."

Suddenly, Malcolm's face changed as so much became clear about why Glenn was… so… well… _Glenn_. His brow rose and his jaw dropped slightly at the revelation.

He was _fucking stunned_.

"Are you happy together, at least?" Glenn wondered.

"Well, yeah," Malcolm replied. "She's anything but a kid though; that'd be fucking sick…" He then stopped and furrowed his brow in thought. "They still let Squibs do magical shit?"

"To a point," Glenn said. "If it was better-integrated, I'd be working for the Other Minister, not fucking DoSAC."

"Better you than me, mate—Shacklebolt ain't too bad, but the cunts and twats running around there drive me up the fucking wall sometimes."

"That's my life every family reunion," Glenn deadpanned. "You'd think they'd stop by now, but no…"

"Think who'd stop what?" Olly asked, butting in on the conversation. Malcolm simply held up his hand and grinned at the younger man.

"…the ladies flocking to yours truly now that I've started wearing this ring to keep from beating them off me," he lied. "Too bad I'm a fucking sex god and get all the women sopping wet when I enter a room, not to mention a couple men."

"Uh… does ' _all the women_ ' include Nicola and Terri…?" Olly cringed.

"Fuck naw; Nicola's too fucking dense and I'm not even sure if Terri's a human woman, let alone capable of sexual fucking desires," Malcolm snorted. The three men glanced over towards where the civil servant's desk was, watching her file papers for a moment before returning to their conversation. "I almost feel bad for whichever poor cunt ends up being to object of her desires."

"I honestly think she's a lesbian," Olly said.

"Always struck me as too career-oriented to be interested in sex," Glenn added. "Olly, I think you have a pair of trousers to change now that Malcolm made you shat them." At that, Olly slunk off, leaving the older men alone.

"Not a fucking word out of you about Clara and me, you hear?" Malcolm growled at Glenn soon as Olly was out of earshot. "She is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I'm not going to let anyone ruin this for us."

"Your secret's safe with me," Glenn promised. "Maybe getting a leg up regularly will do something for your temper."

"Been getting that for a while and I'm still fucking ready to murder someone and feed them to the fucking social media interns," Malcolm laughed. "I'm gonna make myself a cuppa, and if you don't have something concrete about why Nicola left and where she fucking is before I'm done, there will be more pants shat in than just Olly's." He quickly began to walk down the corridor that led to the kitchette, effectively ending the conversation.

Of all the fucking tits, it had to be Glenn fucking Cullen.

* * *

 _Late June 2021_

Carefully counting the bricks, Malcolm knocked on the correct one and gained access to Diagon Alley. He had to take his daughters and niece through the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, as the Floo Network stop for Diagon Alley was supposedly under construction. With his list in-hand and wizard-money in his pocket, he stepped through the entryway and began his errands.

"Dad! Dad! Look! A _Thunderbolt VIII_!" Sorcha squealed, pointing at the broom shop. She ran up to the window and pressed her nose against the glass, marveling at the extremely expensive racing broom in the display case.

"No, Sorchie—it's bad enough you keep on stealing Mam's Bluebottle to scare hikers," Malcolm scolded gently. "C'mon and let's get things done quick so we can get some ice cream later."

"Ice cream?! Yay!" Catriona cheered from atop Natasha's shoulders. At four, she was much more excitable than her eight-year-old sister, and much easier convinced when the promise of ice cream was mentioned. Her fifteen-year-old cousin, however…

"Why do we have to do this, Uncle Malc?" Natasha asked. "Wouldn't it be easier and quicker if Aunt Clara did this after work?"

"Problem with that is she doesn't know when she'll get out of work, meaning that it's safer we go and get this done now instead of making her chance it later," he explained. "Don't worry; we'll make it back home before you know it."

"I hope so—the longer we're here, the more likely it is that I run into someone from school," Natasha muttered.

"I told you: hex the fuck out of 'em," Malcolm shrugged. Despite his Muggle background, he was very quick to suggest magic as a solution at times, especially when it involved Natasha's classmates being complete and utter tits. "It's not like you don't have a _Dueling Club_ at school or anything—claim it was an accident while practicing."

"They want to take away Dueling Club _because of_ things like that," Natasha frowned.

Malcolm curbed the conversation topic for a different time and began shopping. With his niece's help, he was able to not only navigate the street properly—fucking _fuck_ wizards like Anti-Muggle charms and wards even _within_ their own enclaves—but could keep Sorcha and Catriona in-line while picking out exactly what Clara needed. He eventually found himself sitting down on a bench with Catriona curled in his lap with a headache and the shopping dropped at his feet, as Natasha and Sorcha had abandoned him to go see what they could spend their pocket money on in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Daddy? Why does my head hurt?" Catriona whimpered. Her father held her close, stroking her hair in an effort to comfort the girl.

"Mam says you're sensitive to magic," he explained. He and Clara had been over this with her before, though it hadn't quite sunken in yet. "It's why you can tell precisely where the wards around the house begin, when Sorchie can't."

"I wanna be a Muggle like you, Daddy. Then I won't have these headaches."

"It's not as simple as that, Cat," Malcolm frowned. He turned his attention back towards the shop—no sign yet of Natasha and Sorcha—and kissed the top of his youngest's head. It was always a risk bringing her anywhere other wizards and witches went, and Diagon Alley was no exception. Too much magic build-up in the area and it was nearly like when he'd get a headache due to the change in weather. "You don't want to be like me; it's a miracle your da is even here now."

"That sounds like an understatement," a voice chuckled. Malcolm glanced in the direction opposite the shop and saw a familiar face standing a couple paces away, his own shopping in-hand.

"Well bust me balls—Glenn," Malcolm scoffed. "What the fuck are you doing here, you old bastard?"

"Stocking up on some potions," Glenn said, holding up his bag. "Not really what Gran or Mum used to make, but it does the trick. I'm just glad I could still remember where the Leaky Cauldron was or I'd still be wandering around on Charing Cross like a lunatic." He then turned his attention to Catriona, who was clutching her father's shirt in embarrassment. "Now who do we have here? A young Tucker?"

" _Oswald_ , and yeah, she's mine," Malcolm said. "Cat, say hello to Mr. Cullen. I used to work with him in the Muggle Government."

"Was he a nutter or a tosser?"

"He was a policy adviser, pet, which is an entirely different category altogether," he said. He couldn't help but beam at her question—it was such a _him_ thing to say that he didn't correct her language. "Sorry she's a bit stand-offish, Glenn. The girl's a bit overwhelmed with all the magical residue clogging up the air."

"You still a witch though, right kiddo?" Glenn asked Catriona. The girl nodded. "That's better than me: I'm a Squib. Both my parents are magic, but I'm not."

"You're lucky—your head doesn't hurt."

"That's true, but you're even _luckier_ since you have a choice as to whether to live with Muggles or with Magic. Not everyone has that sort of luxury, and I'm sure you will do splendidly."

"Why…?"

"…because you have a great mum and dad, that's why," he replied. "Your father may have terrified me while we were working together, but he did it because he needed to, and let me tell you: it _worked_." Glenn then looked at Malcolm, changing gears. "So what the fuck are _you_ doing here? Running errands for the wife?"

"We're dangerously low on more than a few things at home, and it's better for me and the girls to go than have Clara do it herself."

"Girl ** _s_**? There's more than one?"

"My big sister and cousin are in the shop," Catriona offered, pointing at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. "I don't feel good, so I'm out here with Daddy. Mummy said that when she gets home, she'll make me a potion to help with the headaches."

"Ah, so like my boy Peter," Glenn nodded. "I help him with some of these potions," he held up his shopping bag, "and it helps him do things like keep his focus and think better. He has a boy of his own, a bit older than you. Maybe you could go to school together."

"Is your grandson a wizard…?" Malcolm marveled.

"Not sure yet—only way to know for sure is when next summer hits and he either gets a Hogwarts letter or not," Glenn said. "I hope so, because I can't be the one to buy Peter's potions forever, you know." He then watched as Natasha and Sorcha ran out of the joke shop and over towards them, catching on immediately. "So this must be the niece and elder sister, yeah?"

"Are you a friend of Uncle Malc's?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah, I didn't know Dad ran with _granddads_ ," Sorcha said.

"He's a stopped-up old fart, but he was one of the better ones," Malcolm corrected. "Glenn, my niece Tash, who is in Hogwarts, and my eldest, Sorcha, who's already finished Year Six in a Muggle homeschooling course."

"Glenn Cullen; it's good to meet you both," he said. "Well, I've got to get going. See you around, Malcolm?" Glenn waited until the other man stood to shake his hand, a grin on both their faces.

"You bet, you washed-up old fuck."


End file.
